Primeval Series 6, Episode 2 - Something Old, Something New
by qjay
Summary: A futuristic plague has the team trapped in a small town by zombie-like creatures, while Matt's future double brings Lester's old secrets to light, in this second story of a theoretical "sixth series" for the show.
1. Teaser

**Primeval 6.2 **(Working Title: "Something Old, Something New")

by qjay

_DISCLAIMER: Primeval was created by Adrian Hodges and Tim Haines. It does not belong to me. This is not-for-profit fan fiction, and no infringement is intended._

_SPOILERS: For the entire show through Series 5._

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was originally written in script format; I'm in the process of converting it for posting here. It is the second part of my attempt to write a series of stories to stand in for a sixth series of the UK Primeval. I haven't seen the New World spinoff yet, so these stories may contradict it. Also, I'm not British. Please excuse any inconsistencies of slang or terminology that would not be used in the UK. _

xxxxx

**Previously on Primeval, Series 6:**

Matt Anderson met his time-travelling future double, who alerted him to dire consequences if he didn't find yet another way to change the timeline. Matt set Connor Temple to work developing a means of time-travel without the aid of an anomaly.

Meanwhile, Connor and Abby Maitland finally set a marriage date after a year-long engagement, and Jess Parker and Captain Becker tentatively started dating...

**Teaser**

If there was a least interesting place in the United Kingdom, or indeed the world, as of the year 2013, it might have been a tiny village in coastal Lincolnshire called Southfield. Other than a handful of tourists who visited each summer to enjoy excellent fishing in its sleepy little lake (called, imaginatively, Southfield Lake), probably the only people who even knew about the town were the few hundred souls unfortunate enough to live there, and a handful in the Home Office who'd elected to use the profoundly uninteresting town as the backdrop to a series of scientific endeavours they hoped to keep from accruing any general interest.

But that's all part of another, much more complicated story. The story that unfolded on that morning in 2013 began very simply, with a man named Jim Bailey, a weathered old local with a crooked nose, pale grey eyes, and hardly a hair on his head. One morning after the weather turned warm, as he had every spring and summer weekend for as long as anyone in Southfield could remember, Bailey slung a fishing pole over his shoulder and headed out toward the lake.

As he walked the sleepy high street dominated, as ever it had been, by the steeple of the old town church, Bailey crossed paths with any number of people as seemingly uninteresting as he: an entire cast of characters, in fact, suitable for a brief morality play on the evils of mucking about with the forces of nature. These included:

Will Thomas, the local constable, a pleasant-faced young man with sparkling eyes and a ready smile but not, unfortunately, any great deal of backbone.

Elizabeth Evans, a well-fed matron well into her middle age, who could often be found- as on this morning- surrounded by a full complement of sycophants and yes-men. Besides being old money, Mrs. Evans was on the town council; a fact she never went longer than five minutes without finding a way to slip into the conversation.

Robert Downing, his wife Kate, and their young son Fred, as appealing a young family as you might care to meet, although late Robert had been losing his once-thick brown hair- to stress, he said- revealing a high forehead and more than a few worry lines. Kate was outwardly more calm, but in watching her for more than a few moments, one could not fail to notice that her blue eyes never stopped moving, as though they were searching out trouble in the most remote corners of town.

Reverend Paul, the local vicar, who stood tall and severe in the doorway of the church as though daring any member of his dwindling flock to miss Sunday services, and Mrs. Ridley, the aged housekeeper, as much an institution as the church itself, who tried to sweep around the reverend and chided him to close the door, for Heaven's sake, lest his disapproving glare should get out amongst the townsfolk and hurt somebody.

Bailey passed all these people, good and bad, without a second thought, for you see, he never thought of them as part of any sort of story. Not like his friend Gavin, who used to fish up in Witchfield, and came through town about a year ago with a mad story about his catch being ripped in half by a sea serpent! Now that was a tale worthy of a fisherman.

As for Jim Bailey, the only story he had began more than thirty years ago, when he'd come down from his home in Lincoln and barely missed landing a fish that looked like a brown trout, but must have been ten times the normal size! That was on his first trip to Southfield Lake, and he hadn't stopped trying to catch it since. Every weekend, every vacation. He'd eventually moved into town, to be closer to his obsession. No one understood it, least of all his late wife, rest her soul.

Even Bailey didn't understand it, really. He felt there was something special here, too special for him to fully wrap his mind around, and he wanted to know more about it. He had the oddest feeling that when he knew, the story would finally be over, and he would die.

He had no way of knowing that day had finally arrived...

xxxxx

A few minutes after Bailey passed on his way to the lake, Robert Downing finally got up the nerve to have a conversation he'd been dreading for weeks. Leaving his wife and child behind, he approached Elizabeth Evans, who was having breakfast al fresco with a couple of political supporters.

She was, in fact, in typically high spirits, gesturing animatedly while she recounted her last shopping trip to London: "So I said to the girl, of _course_ I'm not wearing that colour! It looks like some sort of exotic vomit..."

The sycophants loyally produced a choking sound like laughter. Robert took a deep breath and plunged into the fray.

"Mrs. Evans! We need to talk!"

The matron used one pudgy hand to wave him away without looking up from her feast.

"Mrs. Evans!"

"I have no time for you, Mr. Downing," she said. "I have given your family too much time already."

"But you owe us!" Robert said, advancing. "You made a deal with my father! He lost everything because of you!"

"That's a sad tale," said Mrs. Evans, with an excellent look of mock-sympathy. "I think you'll have difficulty proving it to a magistrate. Now, on your way."

Will Thomas stood on the other side of the street. Mrs. Evans caught the constable's eye and made a slight gesture. Robert caught his grimace- Will was new to the police force, and didn't especially like being in the matron's pocket. But he did set out across the street, though grudgingly.

Mrs. Evans just kept smiling at Robert. "I would hate to have the constable drag you away in front of your lovely family..."

Robert looked at Will; a decent enough bloke to lift a glass with on a Saturday night, but not someone who could be counted upon to take his side. Then he looked back at his wife; Kate was motioning him back, her eyes worried, as always. He started backing away.

"There'll soon be a change in this town," he told Mrs. Evans. "What you're doing is wrong."

She favoured him with a beatific smile. "Right is determined by the winners, Mr. Downing, and you have lost. On your way, then."

Will was almost across the street. Robert turned on his heel and walked away. When he reached Kate, she slung an arm around him without saying a word.

They'd already tried saying everything they could think of, and none of it mattered.

xxxxx

In the middle of Southfield Lake, Jim Bailey put away his oars and dug his fishing pole out of the bottom of a wooden skiff. A quick cast later, the game was once again afoot.

"Come on, you old sod," he murmured. "Our game's gone on too long... thirty years coming to this blasted sinkhole of a lake. I'll catch you this year if it's the last thing I do..."

His confidence was feigned; looking out across the lake's placid surface, Bailey saw no real reason to expect this fishing trip to end any differently from the previous hundred.

But then, he could only see on the surface of the lake; if he'd been able to peer down beneath the water, past the fish and vegetation, to the lake bottom, he might have had some reason to change his assessment. Down at the very bottom, half-hidden by seaweed and forgotten bits of fishing tackle, a burst of golden light heralded the opening of a rift in time and space, more commonly known as an anomaly.

At first, it cast the lake into turmoil, as two different bodies of water of different temperatures and compositions unexpectedly mixed. Then, as the lake began to settle down, something else came through. Actually, hundreds of somethings came through, but up on top of the water, Jim Bailey was still struggling to gain control of his boat after the unexpected whirlpool nearly swallowed it whole, and one inexplicable something seemed more than enough.

The something was a frog. Oddly streamlined, painted in a dozen brilliant colours, and quite unlike any frog he'd ever seen, but still definitely a frog. It hopped up into Bailey's skiff while he was rowing a little distance away from the troubled patch of lake, and peered up at him through watery pop-eyes for almost a full minute before he even noticed it.

Bailey brought his skiff into calm water and exhaled a long breath. He shook his fist at the lake in irritation. "Is that all, then? You'll have to do better than that to discourage me!"

Looking about, he realized the lake had done rather more than he'd realized: He'd dropped his fishing pole when the whirlpool hit. It was an expensive pole, his wife's last birthday present to him. He couldn't afford to lose it. Grumbling, he reached down for the oars to return to the spot where it had gone under.

His hand fell on the frog instead. Bailey withdrew the hand almost immediately and slapped at the frog, knocking it into the water.

"Gahh! Ghastly creature... filthy, slimy little..."

He held up his hand, which was coated front and back- where he'd touched the frog, and where he'd slapped it away- with some unidentifiable, yellowish goo. Bailey grimaced, but he was a veteran fisherman. He'd simply retrieve a rag and wipe the stuff off...

While he was doing this, another frog jumped into the boat. Then another and another. And- it was hard to explain, even to comprehend, but they all seemed to be _watching_ him, somehow _waiting_ for something...

Bailey looked down at his hand. The places where the goo had touched were covered with red, angry welts, which began to spread further across his skin...

Two more frogs leaped into the boat. Then four more. Then half a dozen. Bailey looked around at them in growing horror... their black pop-eyes seemed to swallow him up. They were _inside his head _somehow...

His scream was heard by only one person, on the far shore of the lake; the town doctor, himself a fisherman, stopped in mid-cast, frowned, and thought: _That almost sounds like old Jim Bailey..._

But a moment passed and he heard nothing else, so the doctor shook his head and returned to his hobby, convinced his ears were playing tricks. And Jim Bailey- what was left of Jim Bailey- knew this in his final moments, because his mind had somehow expanded to encompass the entire lake, and he was silently watching the doctor through the pop-eyes of countless frogs...

xxxxx

As evening fell that same day, a silver truck bearing the logo of the Anomaly Research Centre pulled into town, parking on the high street a little distance from the town hall. The doors of the truck opened, disgorging an entire team of ARC operatives: Matt Anderson, Connor Temple, Abby Maitland, Emily Merchant, and a captain of security named Becker. Matt yawned and stretched as he stepped away from the truck. It had been a long drive from the ARC, and he was feeling tense, partly from the physical strain of being cooped up...

And partly because Emily, who in many ways he thought the wonderful woman in the world, was really getting on his nerves. Ever since she'd arrived in the 21st Century, this once-loyal subject of Queen Victoria had been searching for ways to connect with the present, to find her niche in this new world. To feel like she genuinely belonged here. And Matt fully supported these efforts... to a point.

Enter Connor Temple, with his assortment of annoying geeky pastimes, and the point was suddenly exceeded. He'd made himself something of a convert, Connor had, and the two of them had _not_ stopped talking the entire trip, about the most annoying, pointless drivel. Case in point:

"I still can't believe it," Emily said as she stepped onto the pavement. "I never saw it coming! Shakespeare himself couldn't have devised such a remarkable turn of events!"

"Pretty cool, eh?" Connor said. By his grin, he was quite pleased with himself, which just made the whole thing even better.

"I don't know anything about its temperature, but I was taken completely by surprise..."

Matt made a rather desperate stab at changing the subject. "Still no contact with Jess on coms?"

"Nope," Connor said, "still dark. And no definite fix on the anomaly, either. I was picking up some electromagnetic interference earlier..."

"Lester said there was some sort of utilities project in the area," Abby added. "He warned us it might interfere with our tracking."

"Well," Matt shrugged, "I imagine we can handle one of these the old-fashioned way..."

Connor and Abby, who'd been chasing anomalies before they even knew how to detect them, didn't seem a bit perturbed. Becker was annoyed, but then, he always was. And Emily was still on the previous subject, having ignored Matt's valiant attempt.

"About this... this recorded theatre, this film, though. I can't say enough. Abby, what did you think? Had you ever anything like it?"

Abby shook her head, sounding about as tired as Matt felt. "Yeah, I've seen it. Everyone has."

She tossed a sour look at Connor, her intended, who tried an innocent look he would surely be getting a lot of use out of in the years to come. Abby didn't seem persuaded of his lack of culpability.

It was Becker who finally gave up and asked. "Sorry, what's she on about?"

Abby sighed. "We introduced Emily to a few DVD's last night. Connor insisted on one in particular, and-"

"He's his father!" Emily exclaimed. "Darth Vader was Luke's _father_! I never imagined!"

Drained of the will to argue, Abby buried her head in her hands, and Matt heartily echoed her quiet whimper.

"The possibilities are endless! What if they did another production about what happened to him? You know, how he became Vader in the first place? Wouldn't that be grand?"

"Trust me," Connor murmured, "it wouldn't..."

As the team approached the centre of town, they found themselves in the shadow of an old church steeple. Just when Matt was about to walk past it, the door burst open, and a tall, pale fellow in black stepped out.

"You're the ones the ARC sent," he intoned in a gravely voice.

"Er, yes, that's right. I'm Matt Anderson, and these are-"

"You're too late," the old reverend said, shaking his head. "You cannot save this town. I fear we are already doomed..."


	2. Act One

** Primeval 6.2 **(Working Title: "Something Old, Something New")

by qjay

_DISCLAIMER: Primeval was created by Adrian Hodges and Tim Haines. It does not belong to me. This is not-for-profit fan fiction, and no infringement is intended._

xxxxx

**Act One**

Reverend Paul's chapel had been converted to a field infirmary. Matt knew the feel of it very well; the future from which he came was concerned with triage above all else. He suppressed a shiver and stepped between the pews, his boots echoing on cold stone as he looked on one suffering face after another. At least seven victims were visible in the chapel, covered with red welts and coughing up some kind of yellowish substance, with an eighth being helped inside even as they watched.

"It began this morning," the reverend explained. "One case, then two, then spreading ever faster. The initial cases were down by the lake, but the latest ones have been from all over town."

"You didn't send them to hospital?" Matt asked.

"The nearest one's in Lincoln. We'd barely realized there was a problem before the government imposed a quarantine and told us to expect you lot." Reverend Paul frowned. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand that. Aren't you the people on the news who... pick up dinosaurs?"

"We do a little more than that," Matt said.

"You'd better be able to do much more, or as I said, there'll be little left to save." The reverend led them to the front of the chapel, where a frail older man, almost entirely covered in boils, was laid out across a pew. His breath came in spasmodic rasps, and his eyes seemed to be covered by a film of the yellowish stuff, so that he barely looked human.

"This was the first case," Reverend Paul said. "Jim Bailey, local fisherman. He's been going out to the lake for thirty years, seeking some gigantic trout. This morning, they found him washed up on shore, looking like this. Then the fellows who brought him in got sick."

Matt gestured at the fellow. "Abby?"

Abby looked a little bit doubtful, but she knelt beside the fisherman and checked his symptoms as best she could, while Reverend Paul hovered over them.

"Are you a doctor?" he asked.

"Zookeeper, actually."

"Is that meant to be a joke?"

"Afraid not."

"Though it kind of is," Connor said, "you know, in a cosmic/ironic sense..."

"Don't you have a doctor of your own?" Becker asked.

Reverend Paul waved vaguely in the direction of another cot. "That's him over there. Avid fisherman, one of the first cases. I suppose I'm the next-best thing; I was a medic in the Falklands before taking up the cloth, but I've never seen anything like this."

Abby sat back on her haunches, frowning. "Could be some kind of toxin... reptile, insect. No visible puncture wounds, though. You said it started by the lake?"

"Yes, but it didn't stay there."

"Then it's unlikely to be just a bite from a creature," Emily said.

Becker groaned. "Unless the creatures are also moving into town."

"I can't even speculate," Abby said. She rose and addressed herself to Matt. "We need more information, and we need real help from Lester. I'm not qualified to deal with anything like this."

"All right, I'll make a phone call," Matt said."Emily, with me. I'm going to have a look around town. The rest of you, check the lake. Meet back here in half an hour; hopefully we'll have an anomaly to close by then."

"I'm not lugging this thing about for half an hour," Connor said. With a dramatic wheeze of exertion, he dropped the case he carried in a corner and said to one of the bystanders, "Guard that with your life. Well, not your life; that's a bit harsh. Just don't touch it; we'll be back."

Reverend Paul caught them up in his baleful glare. "At the rate they're coming now, we may have a lot of sick people in half an hour."

"We'll do everything we can," Matt said. "You have my word."

Two more townspeople were being helped into the chapel as they spoke. One fellow coughed up yellow slime, not two centimetres from Matt's boot. He shivered, thinking how hollow that promise might be. He'd rather deal with a T-Rex than this sort of thing. At least a creature was an enemy that could be identified and fought, stunned or killed, and that was the end of it.

But the world could end with a whisper of plague, as easily as with a dinosaur's roar; perhaps even more easily. Matt didn't admit it to the reverend, but if this thing got loose in the countryside, he feared all their experience and skill might be useless to protect mankind from what would follow...

xxxxx

James Lester checked into the control centre at the ARC, just a routine pass to keep everyone on their toes. Not that Jess Parker ever seemed to need it; of all the ARC's employees, she always seemed to know what he was going to request before he did. For that reason, Lester tried to exempt her from his customary sarcasm. He didn't always succeed, but he did try. Sometimes.

He stopped at Jess' shoulder, watching her work the hub with her usual skill. Lester found himself nodding in appreciation; things that ran smoothly were his favourite things in the world. Speaking of which, it was time to inquire after the exact opposite.

"Anything from the team?"

"Still no coms," Jess said, "but Matt called in, requesting medical backup. People in the town are getting sick, possibly from a creature incursion."

Lester rolled his eyes. "Plagues and pestilence. If you thought my reputation with the Minister couldn't drop any further down the crapper, wait 'till we have a global pandemic on my watch. Well, send them whatever they need. Use my authorization."

"Already forged it," Jess said brightly.

"I suppose the fact I find that comforting rather than infuriating means I've been here too long." Lester squared his shoulders. "Well, keep me posted."

The little smile Jess sent him was another thing Lester found rather more comforting than infuriating. Rather than allow that to show, he turned on his heel and walked out.

The walk back to his office felt like a marathon. He felt worried and tired, not necessarily in that order. Not for the first time, he wondered what would have happened if he'd called in sick the day the Minister needed a troubleshooter to deal with some mad scientist and his prize discovery. He could have taken his wife and children to the shore, had a very pleasant day... and maybe the world would know who he was by now. Assuming there would be a world; the slim chance he might have contributed something toward saving it over the years was something Lester wouldn't have admitted treasuring, but on some mornings, it was the only reason getting out of bed seemed worthwhile.

He was so tired, he nearly missed the door to his office, and fumbled with the biometric lock. Philip Burton might have been an utter fool, but thanks to the toys he'd donated, Lester's office was all but impregnable to anyone he didn't invite.

Which made it all the more unusual to find Matt Anderson there ahead of him, sitting in his chair.

Lester barely blinked; he prided himself on showing little reaction to unusual circumstances. In this job, it was a survival skill. So he took off his jacket, folded it over his arm, and placed it on the chair facing his own, all the while regarding Matt with mild scepticism. There was no need for major scepticism just yet, but Lester kept it in reserve.

"I thought you were with the team."

Matt arched both eyebrows, an invitation to deduce... something. It was true that he didn't look quite right; he was bruised and battered and looked to have been through hell. And if Lester squinted, he thought perhaps he saw a few gray hairs he didn't remember...

"Ah," he said. "This isn't another damned clone thing, is it?"

"Hardly," Matt said.

"Good. I've lost perfectly acceptable colleagues that way in the past." Lester blinked to hear himself describe Nick Cutter that way, but it was true. He made himself focus. "What, then? Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come? I must warn you, I'm far more irredeemable than Scrooge."

"No, you're not," said Matt- Future-Matt, apparently. "We come to understand each other very well, James... in the future."

Lester stood over his own chair, attempting to keep his poise, in the hopes Future-Matt would take the hint and vacate it. When he did not, Lester sat in the visitor's chair as though it was a matter of no consequence. He reckoned unexpected visitors, on some level, were like velociraptors- you didn't want to show any weakness.

"So that's it," he said. "The unreformed time-traveller returns to his roots."

"Something like that," the Future-Matt said.

"You came through the new anomaly?"

"What?" Future-Matt blinked. "No, of course not. What's today... Lincolnshire, yes? That was a tricky one. But it's a day in the country compared to what's coming."

Lester frowned. "Aren't you changing the future by telling me this?"

"Oh, yes." Future-Matt showed off a gallows grin. "When the coming future is the worst one possible, what do you have to lose?"

Lester leaned across the desk, trying unsuccessfully to gauge the other man. "You're being very cryptic, Matt. I dislike riddles; ask anyone here."

"Sorry, James," the other said. "There are rules to this game. You have to work some of it out for yourself."

"But why come to me?" Lester said.

"Well, I can't seem to get through to myself, can I? He keeps dragging his heels. I remember how he felt; he's just accomplished his great work, saved the world. He doesn't want the responsibility any more. He'd prefer to have a life of his own, so he's mostly concerned about the danger to Emily." Future-Matt trailed off. His eyes assumed a far-away cast as he stared at a spot on the wall past Lester's shoulder. "As though there's any way to save Emily... or any of them."

Lester felt a chill; the idea that after all they'd done, all they'd achieved for the very world, they were still hurtling toward some apocalyptic future was...well, it was overly pessimistic, even for him. He couldn't help taking it out on Matt, a little.

"Do you mean to say you knew about this? And you said nothing?"

"Oh, don't be so sanctimonious, James." The Future-Matt spread his hands, a mocking picture of reasonable accommodation. "I'm not the only one with secrets, am I?"

Lester needed all the force of long practice to keep his face from showing emotion. "I don't know what you could possibly-"

"She's in danger," Future-Matt said.

"I thought you said they were all in danger."

"You know which 'she' I mean."

Lester was literally staggered back on his heels, and grabbed the chair to steady himself. Matt Anderson's double took the opportunity to press his advantage, rising from Lester's chair and pointing the finger like a veteran prosecutor.

"You knew about her all along. You never even told Cutter."

Lester felt a million denials chase across his mind in the span of about half a second. The Future-Matt's stare, however, brooked no disagreement, and certainly no deceit. For the first time in his memory, James Lester was caught speechless.

Then he rallied. "We didn't have any idea what it all meant. Maintaining secrecy was for the good of the project... the good of the world! The danger could have been-"

"Oh, yes, all for queen and country, eh, James? I'm sure you had your reasons. They may not even have been all bad. But now I'll tell you something else- _you are going to make this right_." The Future-Matt stepped around the desk in two strides and grabbed Lester by the front of the shirt, banishing all hope he might be a hologram, hallucination, or some practical joke of Connor's. It was remarkable how he resembled Matt Anderson precisely, and yet not- for Lester had never seen such fury on the original Matt's face. "Someone's got to do this, James. If I won't, you'll have to."

Lester shook his head. "I don't know what you expect from me. It's beyond my power."

"Then call him."

Lester looked up sharply; the Future-Matt's eyes were cold and angry, showing not the slightest hint of conflict about the suggestion he'd just made. But Lester couldn't afford to take it lightly. He made one more attempt at denial.

"I don't know who you-"

Future-Matt shook his head. "I told you, James, we come to know each other quite well before you die. I know all your secrets. You will do whatever it takes. You and yours began this; now you'll end it. If you don't..." The briefest hesitation, a hint of the Matt whom Lester knew. Then it was gone. "I can always go back further. I can appear any time in the past, anywhere your back is turned. If you won't fix this, I'll make a Lester who will. And I might not stop with you."

Lester back-pedalled from the intruder, his composure all but forgotten, replaced by something like pure disgust. "Matt Anderson would never do that."

The Future-Matt grinned. "Then perhaps I'm not the Matt you know. Or rather, he's not me yet. He hasn't been hardened. Think of that. He's spent his whole life single-mindedly training to save the world at any cost... and he's not hard enough for this.

"So call someone who is."

Before Lester's eyes, the Future-Matt gave a small salute and vanished, with a shimmering golden effect reminiscent of an anomaly. The ARC's director leaned heavily on the chair he'd seized, regaining his composure, trying to put the last few minutes in order in his mind. When he thought he could return to work without trembling like a frightened schoolboy, he took a deep breath and turned-

And found the Future-Matt standing right behind him, a practical demonstration of how easily he could carry out the threat he'd made. Lester felt his fingernails digging into his palms...

"Oh, and James," the Future-Matt said. "Let's not mention this little chat to me, or to any of the others. Wouldn't want to damage my self-respect."

With a grin that wasn't nearly as friendly as it appeared, he vanished again. Lester walked around his desk and sat down heavily in his own chair, with his head in his hands, and tried to think what to do next.

xxxxx

Connor Temple was having a really good day. The weather was gorgeous, the perfect break from working on obscure temporal theory in a stuffy big-city lab. His engagement to Abby was going smoothly, for once, and they were deep into making wedding plans without a single argument. Best of all, after six long years, he'd finally- _finally_!- made a friend in the ARC who might appreciate the finer things in life. And not just any friend, but someone completely unfamiliar with modern culture, without any of the prejudices against the things he loved that so many people, even Abby, held unthinkingly. He could mould Emily's sci-fi experience completely, and do it right.

First thing, he'd have to teach her the difference between _Star Trek _and _Star Wars_- it annoyed him no end when people messed that up; the contrast was so _obvious_! Then they could move on to _Doctor Who_ and _Torchwood_, and if all went well, in a matter of months they'd be on to the hard stuff: _Blade Runner_ and _2001: A Space Odyssey_.

It made him giddy just thinking about it, not least because introducing Emily to all those things would give him an excuse to re-watch them himself. If only some enterprising geek had taken _him_ under their wing years ago, he might have avoided that regrettable_ Space Precinct _phase...

"Connor!" Abby said. The pair of them were walking through the forest, en route to the lake, several steps behind Becker. Apparently she'd been trying to get his attention for some time. "Aren't you going to ask him?"

"I... what?"

Abby elbowed him in the ribs. "You know, Becker! You haven't forgotten, have you? I swear, if you say that silly Star Wars thing pushed it out of your mind..."

"Pushed what- oh! Nah, come on, Abby! You know me better than that!" Connor said. "Forget. Me, forget. As though I could have forgotten..."

"You forgot," Abby sighed. "I'm marrying a man with an IQ of 200 and the memory of a dormouse."

"I'm waiting for the right opportunity, woman! This is very important male-bonding moment. You can't just blurt out-"

"As though you've ever had any trouble blurting things out!" Abby pushed him forward. "Just go on and ask him!"

"Fine- fine! I'll ask!" Connor sighed. "But I'm not counting this as a fight. I'm not ruining my record. It's still a good day."

"You're ridiculous," Abby murmured, but he liked to think she meant it fondly, and so it still didn't count.

Whether or not it counted, she fell a few steps behind while Connor run to catch up to Becker, allowing them their moment. So it was that Connor proudly slapped his old comrade on the back and asked him to be best man at the wedding, and Becker, showing all the sensitivity toward emotional moments for which he was justifiably famous, wrinkled his nose and replied:

"What, me? Best man? You're sure _I'm_ the one you want?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, if you would." Connor shrugged. "My best mate's Duncan, but he's a little... unpredictable, these days. And Matt, well, he's a great bloke but a little..."

"Intense?" Becker suggested.

"I was going to say _frightening_."

Becker's disappointment was palpable. "You're not frightened of me?"

"Oh, sure I am!" Connor assured him. "But I'm more used to you, aren't I? What do you say?"

The security captain still looked doubtful. "Would I have to throw you a bachelor party?"

"Oh, I've got that all worked out! Pizza and _Battlestar Galactica_ marathon!"

"That's your idea of a stag weekend?"

Connor shrugged. "It's what I did as a bachelor, isn't it?"

"So not even a stripper?"

They were approaching the shore of the lake. Just one more knot of foliage lay between them and thei destination. Connor looked all around and didn't see Abby, but to be safe, he lowered his voice an octave.

"Did I ever tell you about my last girlfriend? Really my only previous girlfriend? Abby started a fistfight and thrashed her. Don't you think a stripper would be sort of... taking her life in her hands?"

"Don't flatter yourself!" Abby said; somehow she'd appeared right beside them. "That was about Rex."

Connor was still marvelling at her remarkable stealth capability and wondering whether that would be a major inconvenience in married life, and so he couldn't muster a comeback. Fortunately, Becker took up the cause:

"You thrashed someone over a lizard? I think I see his point..."

Abby rolled her eyes. "I've already told him he can do as he likes until the wedding. All I ask is he attend, and... what, Connor?"

Connor sighed. "That I don't discuss sci-fi, fantasy, or comic books with the guests."

"Or?" she said expectantly.

"Or horror," he added, by rote.

"And if you break this deal, what will you _not _be asked to attend...?"

Connor winced. "The honeymoon."

"All I ask," said Abby, and she quickened her pace, pushing past the final line of foliage toward the lake.

Connor shared a defeated- not to say _whipped_- look with Becker. Raising his voice for Abby's benefit, he called, "I suppose you don't want to hear my idea for doing the whole thing up in a zombie theme, then?"

"That's horror!" Abby called back.

"Zombies aren't horror," he grumbled in a low voice. "They're more of a survivalist cautionary tale... you never know when it might be the zombie apocalypse..."

The last of Abby's blonde hair disappeared into the greenery. Connor shook his head, glad she hadn't heard but annoyed that nobody understood the distinction. Another thing to teach his new pupil!

Then Abby screamed, and the whole discussion faded from his mind.

"Abby!" he cried, breaking into a run. "Abby, what's happened?"

He burst out of the forest with Becker right behind him. There, on the banks of the lake, they saw Abby backing away from two new victims of whatever illness had claimed the townspeople. The thing is, both of them were dead to the world, covered in the red welts and yellowish slime, and yet they staggered toward Abby, reaching out as if to touch her, almost like...

"No way," Connor said.

"I gather you didn't plan that, then?" said Becker.

Being Becker, he remembered a beat sooner than Connor and Abby did that they were actually armed, and blazed away with his EMD rifle, scoring several direct hits. The plague victims didn't seem totally susceptible to the coordination-disrupting effects of the EMD's, but it did slow them down. When Connor and Abby added their pistols to the chorus of firepower, it even _knocked_ them down.

Until they got up again.

"Oh, come on!" Connor cried, as Abby turned and ran to meet them at the edge of the forest, with the plague victims still in pursuit. "I was kidding about the zombies! I really thought I was kidding..."

"Run," Becker said, and they did.

_So much for a good day_, Connor thought. _I suppose it was bound to happen. It's been six years since I got all the way through one of those..._


	3. Act Two

**Primeval 6.2 **(Working Title: "Something Old, Something New")

by qjay

___DISCLAIMER: Primeval was created by Adrian Hodges and Tim Haines. It does not belong to me. This is not-for-profit fan fiction, and no infringement is intended._

xxxxx

**Act Two **

Walking the high street of Southfield was one of those experiences Matt Anderson could never fully explain to people from the present. It was one thing to say you were from a post-apocalyptic future; people had been hearing that since H.G. Wells- but he could never fully convey the sense of wonder he felt walking down a quiet street, watching people go about their everyday lives, experiencing the sights, sounds, and smells of a culture at peace. Emily could share his wonder, but she couldn't fully understand how easily it could all be taken away...

Particularly when you were trying to inspect this quiet street for creature incursion without anyone noticing. Judging by the curious stares they received, they weren't very good at it.

"You'd think they'd be more used to tourists," He murmured in Emily's ear.

"But probably not many from the 19th Century," she said. "And even less from... sorry, which century did you say you were from?"

Matt looked away. "I didn't."

More than a bit to his surprise, Emily's fingers intertwined with her. He looked down at her and enjoyed the small, embarrassed smile that smoke of her Victorian upbringing.

"Are we ever going to talk about the place you came from?" she said. "You don't have to, but it might help."

"I can't..." Matt shook his head. "There are rules to this game. I can't tell you the future."

"Yes, but it's all gone now! The future will be different because of us! It will be better!"

"We hope," he sighed. "That's the trouble. Once you start playing with time, there's not just one way it could all go wrong, there are millions- billions.

"Take this, for example. Nothing like it happened in my timeline, but it's top-grade nightmare fuel. An epidemic from the past or future, some bug for which modern humans have no defence- wipe out the human race in a matter of months. Make us wish New Dawn had succeeded."

Emily arched an eyebrow. "You're a ray of sunshine today, I must say."

"I haven't been sleeping well..."

Emily squeezed his hand. Matt looked in her eyes, wanting to say something, wishing he'd spent some of his relentless training time learning about words... sonnets... something appropriate. He'd just have to improvise...

Before he could speak, a plump middle-aged woman came running up to them on the pavement, all but dragging a fresh-faced young constable behind her.

"You, there!" she cried. "Yes, you! You're with the ARC, aren't you?"

"Eh," Matt said, "yes. I'm Matt Anderson. This is-"

The middle-aged woman didn't seem to care. She planted herself in front of him like a stone statue, a fortification against his getting anything done. Matt rolled his eyes, anticipating the haughty tone even before she spoke.

"I am Mrs. Elizabeth Evans. I'm on the town council. I think you'll find I'm the best person to deal with in Southfield."

"With respect," Matt said, "we're not here to deal with people. All we need is to find any unusual creatures that might have been seen in town."

The young constable frowned. "What sort of creatures?"

"Could be anything," Emily said, "big or small. Animals you've never seen around here before."

"We haven't had any reports, but I could-"

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Evans said impatiently. "Will, give me a moment with the gentleman, won't you?"

Apparently she wasn't making a request- of anyone. Mrs. Evans grabbed Matt by the elbow and pulled him several steps away from Emily and Will, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"It's plague, isn't it? Some god-awful bug from the tropics that will have everyone bleeding from the ears?"

Matt cleared his throat. "I really can't-"

"What I want to know is, what's your evacuation plan? What provisions have you made for taking our leading citizens out of harm's way?"

Matt didn't try especially hard to keep the disgust out of his voice. "Just the 'leading' citizens, then?"

Mrs. Evans arched an eyebrow. "Of course, it would be preferable to save the entire town, but if that becomes impossible-"

"If that becomes impossible, Mrs. Evans, it will be because we're all dead," Matt snapped. "I'm trying to prevent that, and you're wasting my time."

"Don't take that tone with me, young man" she hissed, anger and entitlement turning her already not-quite-attractive visage positively monstrous. "I have connections in the Home Office!"

Matt silently counted to ten. On the other hand, sometimes he thought the entire human race would be better off without words of any sort...

xxxxx

Emily Merchant watched Matt arguing with Mrs. Evans and debated giving the unpleasant woman a piece of her mind, but then she noticed the constable, Will, watching them with the same uncomfortable expression as Emily herself, and she thought she saw an opportunity to make an ally.

Quietly, carefully, she murmured, "Don't you think she's a bit... much?"

"Sometimes," Will sighed. "She's right, though. She_ is_ this town. What she doesn't own, her friends do... and she owns _them_."

"I always thought a town was made up of people," Emily said, "not of the things people owned."

"You _are_ old-fashioned." Will laughed, but it faded to a kind of quiet melancholy. "If you're asking whether I like it, I don't. I'm only doing my job. I'll help you however I can."

Emily thought of the sick people in the chapel and shuddered. "We may have to take you up on that..."

xxxxx

A few metres away, the meeting of minds between Matt and Mrs. Evans was reaching a philosophical high point:

"Look, I'm not kidding! I don't have time for this!"

"We'll see how much time you have once I've placed a call to James Lester." Mrs. Evans seemed to enjoy the small 'o' of surprise formed by Matt's mouth. She turned up her smirk to full force. "Yes, I do happen to know your boss. And his boss. And hers. I know the Minister himself. Don't think you can dismiss me."

Matt sighed and tried again, "I'm not trying to-"

Someone screamed, not far away. Matt felt rather awful, because some part of him was happier looking for the source of the scream than continuing his conversation. It wasn't hard to locate- several people, all volunteers from the chapel by the look of them, were running down the high street toward Matt. The question became, what were they running from?

Matt and Emily took the lead in confronting this new threat, with Will just behind them. Mrs. Evans cowered behind the rest, but Matt supposed she'd only get in the way, in any event.

Another group of volunteers came after the first, and this time Matt recognized the tall spectre of Reverend Paul among the stragglers. He still couldn't quite see what they were running from-

And then he could. It was none other that Jim Bailey, Southfield's own Patient Zero, and the other poor souls from the chapel, staggering down the street, eyes dead and staring at the world around them. The disease had taken them over to such an extent that their faces were barely recognisable as human, but they moved with an odd sort of coordination, almost as though had some sort of plan-

An unfortunate young woman stepped out of a shop door right in front of them, and Bailey seized her. Matt took a step forward, wondering what if anything he could do to help her- but it was already too late. The red welts were spreading across her skin even as she screamed, and in a matter of moments, she'd joined up with the horde, taking her place in formation behind Bailey. They began to spread throughout the town...

"Well, that's new," Matt said.

"No," said Emily. "I saw it in one of Connor's films..."

Matt turned to Will. "We've got to get everyone away from here. They'll-"

Before he could finish, Reverend Paul reached the safety of their little group, turned, and whipped out a rifle from beneath his robes. Matt had only a second to wonder where he'd gotten it, whether it was from the Falklands or a recent acquisition before he fired off a round, dropping one of the plague victims with a perfect head-shot...

Matt grabbed the barrel and forced it down. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Sending those things back to hell!"

Matt groaned. "Look, they're not demons! They're-"

"Don't be ridiculous, boy!" The patronizing disgust on Reverend Paul's face reminded Matt very much of the way he must have been looking at Mrs. Evans. "Of course they're not literal demons! But one way or another, they must be stopped!"

Emily said, "And you think spreading their contaminated blood around the street is the best way to do that?"

Bless her, she actually got through to the reverend with that. With a sigh and an chagrined expression, he dropped the rifle. Matt turned back to Will.

"We've got to get the people away from here so we can deal with this."

"Right," said the constable. "Er... how?"

"I..." Matt sighed. "We'll think of something."

The vanguard of plague victims was getting close. Meanwhile, Matt heard even more shouting from down a side-street. A moment later, it resolved itself into a familiar voice: Connor, Abby, and Becker tore around the corner at a dead run.

"There are zombies!" Connor was shouting. "There are zombies! There are- oh, Matt. Good. You've seen the zombies. Actually, that's not good, is it?"

"Not really, no." Matt turned to Connor's intended. "Abigail, if you've a non-zombie explanation for this, now's the time."

"No idea," Abby said. "We've seen parasites that change the behavior of the host, but this isn't a parasite. It's spreading much too fast, taking complete control of their motor systems in seconds."

Matt turned back to deal with the townspeople- and suddenly realized he had bigger problems. In the time it took to greet the new arrivals, a group of plague victims had encircled them. Rather than attacking immediately, they seemed intent on herding the group into an ever-smaller space, backed against the front window of a gift shop, already closed for business in the deepening evening twilight, while their comrades fanned out around the town...

"Look at the way they move," Connor said. "It's almost strategic coordination."

"That's impossible," said Abby.

"So far. But if there's been nothing like this in the past-"

"It's a plague from the future," Matt finished.

Connor nodded. "The next generation of adaptive retrovirus: Group intelligence."

"Yeah, but how did it get here?" Abby said. "Finding the anomaly is the main thing now."

With the group now completely penned in, Bailey moved in for the kill. Becker knocked him back with the stock of his EMD rifle, then turned toward the shop window.

"Actually, the main thing now is survival. Reverend, if you could?"

Reverend Paul fired several shots from his conventional rifle, shattering the shop window. Becker hammered at the weakened glass with his own weapon, creating a fair-sized hole, and climbed through. He turned and gave Abby a hand after him, while Matt, Emily, and Connor fired periodic shots from their EMD pistols, knocking the first line of plague victims back.

With help from Becker and Abby, Mrs. Evans, Will, Reverend Paul, and finally the rest of the team climbed through into the shop. Some of the plague victims tried following them through the window, while others began pounding on the door.

"Conserve your shots!" Matt cried, even as he knocked a plague victim back through the window. "We're going to run out of charge long before they run out of plague!"

"Wait," said Will. "Those people out there: Are they alive or dead?"

"Er... yes," said Connor.

Matt sighed. "What he means is, we need to figure this out. We need to find a safe place to figure it out, and then we'll help them as much as we can."

"Or kill them," Connor said. "You know. Whichever."

"Connor!" Abby snapped.

"Look, they're zombies! Death's a mercy to them! Ask anyone!"

"I'm actually with him on this," said Becker.

"Self-defence _only_," Matt said. "At least until we know whether they can be cured."

"And how do you propose finding out?" Reverend Paul asked.

The plague victims were now inside the shop, via the window and the door. As they continued backing away, Matt glanced at Mrs. Evans- and found wearing a colder, more calculating demeanour than he'd thought he capable of assuming.

"I can help with that," she said. "Get me on the phone to James Lester."

"How do you know him?" Abby asked.

"Let us say, we have friends in common."

"For the last time," Matt hissed, "I don't care who you know or who you are. Our priorities are as follows: Get back to the lake and buy time to find and close that anomaly. Keep this plague from leaving town and wiping out the world. And then saving lives- _all_ lives, equally."

"Yes, that's a charming set of priorities," Mrs. Evans said. "I'm afraid you'll have to adjust them."

Something in the dim shop before them went _crash_, and a nervous Connor fired off a couple of shots. The dim shapes of advancing plague victims could still be seen and they backed through shelves of Southfield Lake souvenirs on the way to the rear of the establishment...

"If you want to stop these things," Mrs. Evans continued, "you had better get me out of here. That's non-negotiable."

Matt scowled at her. "A few minutes ago, you thought this was tropical plague. That's really the last lie you get, Mrs. Evans, so think carefully: What else do you know, and haven't mentioned?"

The middle-aged woman arched a heavy eyebrow. "I know the same thing that keeps your coms _out_ can keep these creatures_ in_. I can show you how, but first I must talk to Lester. That means you must get me to safety. I trust that's agreeable to you?"

They were near the back door now; the dim shapes were right in front of them. An entire shelf fell over with a _smash_.

"Sounds far more agreeable than staying here," Emily said.

Mat sighed. "All right. Do you know a place where we can be safe for a few minutes?"

"There's an old house on the east end of town," Will said. "I was paid to keep people away from it. I think it's some sort of installation..."

"It's got a reinforced basement with a lab," Mrs. Evans said. "We'll be safe there."

Connor said, "If you want to freeze the anomaly, though, I left the locking device in the chapel."

"That was really clever, by the way," Abby said.

"Excuse me, I didn't hear you objecting at the time!"

"I thought you didn't want to argue today?"

"Yeh, well, that's when it was a good day! I think the day's now a bit crap, so-"

"I can make them safe in the church," Reverend Paul interrupted. "At the rate they're moving, the plague victims should have left it behind by now."

"Suppose they haven't?" Abby said. "What happens then?"

"Oh," Becker said, "the usual..."

They'd reached the back door. Becker fired a couple more EMD bolts, but the plague victims were losing their fear. No more time to sort things out...

"Emily, Will, with us to the lab," Matt said. "Becker, get Connor and Abby back to the lake in one piece. Reverend, if you could buy us a little cover?"

Reverend Paul lifted his rifle again and fired repeatedly in all directions, collapsing shelves and shattering gift items, creating a small barricade of wood and broken glass between them and the infected. Becker turned and kicked open the back door.

They found themselves in a dark alley behind the shop. Will grabbed Matt's arm and directed him to the right, while Reverend Paul guided the second group to the left.

"Watch out when you get to the end of the alley," Matt said. "With the kind of coordination they've shown, they might have left a guard!"

"Right," Becker said. "Matt... good luck."

"The same," Matt said. "If anything happens and you can't get through to us..."

"Do anything to stop it," Becker said.

Matt nodded. "Up to and including burning the town."

The security captain gave him a quiet nod of professional understanding. Emily, on the other hand, grabbed Matt's wrist.

"Surely it won't come to that?"

"Moving now is our best chance to see that it doesn't," Matt said, which was true without answering the question.

Sounds from inside the shop indicated the victims were pushing past the barricade. They were running out of time.

"Right. Move now. It's only zombies. Nothing to worry about." Connor didn't seem to have convinced himself, but he took a deep breath and turned to Abby. "D'you think this is what our life together will be like?"

She shrugged. "Has been so far."

"Shouldn't there be something else, though? Something more... settled?"

"We can hope not," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. They turned and ran together, with Becker and Reverend Paul on their heels.

Matt's team backed away more slowly, as he and Emily fired several shots at the back door to force the plague victims to keep their heads down. When they seemed to have stalled them for a moment, they turned and ran down the alley's right-hand fork.

They did find a couple of plague victims waiting for them on the high street, but Matt and Emily knocked them backward with a couple of EMD bolts and Will smashed one over the head with a two-by-four he'd picked up in the alley. Matt thought that exceeded the limits of 'self-defence only,' but he wasn't inclined to quibble. A moment later, they were free and running through the darkened town.

They followed Will's lead for a time, until they came to a residential area- or, rather, a disaster area. Mere minutes after the plague began to spread, it had already cleared out entire streets full of houses. Matt saw broken windows and open doors, dim shapes moving among the ruins, the people who lived in the houses having either fled or been turned. Other houses were barricaded; Matt dared to hope some of the people in those might still be alive, waiting for the rescue he meant to provide.

Will called a halt at a crossroads, and turned to the left. What Matt saw in that direction turned his blood cold: Another group of plague victims surrounded a modest home, trapping its three residents at their front door. Matt saw a young man with a high forehead, his tough-looking wife, and their young son-

"Get away!" the woman cried. "Get away from us!"

Matt thought she was talking to the plague victims, but then he saw her looking right at him- she was trying to protect_ them_. A smile spread across his face.

He felt Mrs. Evans tugging at his arm. "You can't save everyone! Just leave them!"

"Not a chance," Matt said, and took aim with his EMD.

"Look!" Emily said, pointing past his shoulder.

More plague victims were approaching from behind them- and from down the next street- and from across the way. They were quite trapped.


	4. Act Three

**Primeval 6.2 **(Working Title: "Something Old, Something New")

by qjay

___DISCLAIMER: Primeval was created by Adrian Hodges and Tim Haines. It does not belong to me. This is not-for-profit fan fiction, and no infringement is intended._

xxxxx

**Act Three**

Matt looked all around at the infected closing in on them from all sides. He glanced at Emily and shared a small nod and a smile. Then he turned so they were back-to-back. Their EMD pistols didn't seem to pack enough punch to knock down so many plague victims, so fast, but perhaps if they could create even a small opening, _someone_ would get away.

"Ready, darlin'?" he whispered.

"Matt," she said, "if we don't get out of this-"

If ever there was a sentence Matt would have liked to hear ended properly, that was the one. But he couldn't be too disappointed it was cut off, since the interruption gave them a new lease on life. As the plague victims clustered around, the young man with the high forehead suddenly stepped up and hurled something to the ground. It was the size of a golf ball and seemed to be glowing faintly. Some instinct told Matt he did not want to see that glow released, so he squeezed shut his eyes, and a moment later the thing detonated with a _POP!_ Something like a stiff wind seemed to pass through him, and when he opened his eyes, the plague victims were collapsing to the ground, twitching and jerking as though they did not quite control their movements. It was what his EMD was supposed to do to them, but didn't; somehow, this tiny explosive _did._

Matt turned to the young man. "What was that thing?"

"A gift from my father," the other said. "He feared something like this might happen."

"Have you got any more of them?" Emily pressed.

"Just one," the young man said, and opened his other palm to show another golf ball-sized pellet, a more boring silver now that it was deactivated. "Not quite enough to save the town, is it? I'm Robert Downing; this is my wife, Kate, and my son, Fred."

"Is there anyone else alive here?" Emily asked.

Kate shook her head of dirty blonde hair. "As best we can tell, the whole street has gone."

Robert took a sudden, violent step toward Mrs. Evans, and Will placed himself between them. Matt joined in, though he secretly wished Robert Downing was very strong and would resist all attempts to restrain him. No such luck. He did manage to slip an arm past Matt and Will as they held him back, the better to point an accusatory finger.

"She did this! It's all her fault!"

"No," Matt said, again with some reluctance. "There's a natural phenomenon called-"

"Anomalies, I know." Matt blinked; even with the truth about dinosaurs out in the public, few enough people would have known what to make of an anomaly. Robert continued, "My father knew. He was a scientist. She kept him working on anomalies, and something else- something hidden and dangerous. She forced him to help her! When he wouldn't go along any more, she had him sacked! Ruined him, and ruined us for knowing about it."

With Robert more or less calmed, Matt turned back to Mrs. Evans, who was watching the incapacitated plague victims with some degree of impatience, but seemed not a bit perturbed by this revelation.

"What have you been up to?" Matt demanded. "What the _hell_ have you people been doing?"

"Research," the matron said. "But you're no stranger to that, are you, future man? Tell me, how's that little time-travel experiment progressing? We're most interested in that."

Matt counted ten and hissed, "Who's _we_? How can you possibly know about me?"

Mrs. Evans didn't seem inclined to answer. Before Matt could press the point, Emily touched his arm. The plague victims were recovering- slightly, but very definitely.

"I think you'll find short-range interference only disrupts their connection to the group for a short time, unless it's held in place by some power source- which I can provide." Mrs. Evans' smirk never left her face. "We had better be going."

Matt didn't like it one bit. He had about two hundred more questions for Mrs. Evans, and even if every answer was as cryptic as the previous ones, he thought he might learn more than he had in two years at the ARC. Unfortunately, she was right. The plague victims were recovering _fast_, so his quest for understanding would have to wait. He holstered his EMD. Pulling a smaller weapon from his boot, he offered it grip-first to Robert.

Will frowned at him. "You had an extra weapon? I've been hitting zombies with a wooden plank!"

"You might have used it for her benefit," Matt said, nodding toward Mrs. Evans.

"Fair point, but I'm still a little hurt..."

Shrugging that off, Matt said to Robert, "We're heading for the laboratory."

"I know the place well."

"In that case, you've just been drafted by the ARC."

He held out the basic EMD, waiting for the other man to take it, but Robert shifted on his feet and blinked at the weapon doubtfully. Instead, Kate's fingers folded around the grip.

"He can't even hit a dartboard," she laughed. "I'd better take it."

Matt nodded, but experienced a moment of doubt when he saw how professionally Kate examined and held the weapon. If she was somehow a part of Southfield's secrets-

She saw his expression and shrugged. "I was in the army. Iraq."

"All right," he said, with a respectful nod to a fellow veteran. "Let's go."

As the plague victims struggled to their hands and knees, the group hurried down the street with Matt and Kate covering their retreat. Emily glanced over her shoulder for an extra moment before following.

"They do rather remind one of something from the Mos Eisley cantina, don't they?"

Matt hoped that wasn't the same thought she'd been about to finish before. After all, there was a _reason_ he generally sent Connor in the other direction when they split up...

xxxxx

The front door of the old church was open only a crack, silent and dark inside, while a slight breeze caused the branches of a couple of trees on either side of the stone steps to sway. In keeping with the general Star Wars theme of the day, Connor Temple observed from behind a hedge several meters away, feeling rather like Han Solo staking out the Imperial bunker on Endor. He grinned at the image, pleased with himself. True, the last time he'd used it, Cutter had demoted him to the status of Artoo-Detoo, but that was before he saved the human race and got the girl. He felt he'd earned a promotion to someone along the lines of Lando Calrissian, at least.

His own rescued princess knelt on the ground beside him, while Becker- whom Connor imagined as the Wookiee of the group, though he didn't think it was to share that image- lurked behind them with Reverend Paul.

"Seems quiet," Connor murmured. "I think they've gone."

"I've lost a lot of friends in places that seemed quiet," Becker said. "I don't like the look of that front door- narrow space, blocked in on all sides, open invitation- excellent spot for an ambush. Is there a rear entrance?"

"There's a basement," Reverend Paul said. "This way..."

He backed away from the bushes. Becker stopped to check his rifle before following. He nodded to Connor and Abby. "Stay here. I'll signal if it's safe."

"Be careful," Abby said.

"Come on, luv. How long have we known each other?"

Becker winked at her and vanished; Connor supposed he ought to have been annoyed by that, save that it was carried off with a certain panache. Very Solo.

_I hope this doesn't mean _I'm_ the Wookiee_, Connor thought, but he thought he saw a flicker of movement from the other side of the church, and even geeky thoughts failed to cheer him.

"Connor," Abby murmured, "did you see...?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's really dark. No moon or anything."

"Yeah."

Connor rocked back and forth on his haunches, fists closed tight to fight off trembling. "I wasn't really going to have zombies at the wedding, you know. I'm terrified of them."

"I know," Abby said, and squeezed his hand.

Connor glanced at her sideways, trying to remember a time when _she'd_ needed his reassurance for something. He could remember seeing Abby anxious, angry, concerned, even in despair, but outright terror? Not even at the brink of death.

"Don't you ever get scared?" he murmured.

"Never," she said. She couldn't keep a straight face very long, however, and looked away with a smile. "'Course I do. Not now, though. Not a bit frightened."

_Figures,_ Connor thought. "Why's that, then?"

"Because you know what to do."

Connor turned to her, blinking slowly, sure he'd misheard that. "Me?"

"Yes. Think about it, Connor. How many of these zombie things have you made me watch with you?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Maybe a hundred."

"Right." Abby grinned. "You were paying more attention that I was, so you know what to do. They're all the same, aren't they?"

"Oh!" Connor said. "No, no, no, they're not at all! _Walking Dead_ is a commentary on the breakdown of law and order, while _Night of the _Living_ Dead_ is more about-"

"Connor," Abby said, urging him back to the point.

"Fire!" he said when he got there. "Fire would prevent the plague from replicating. If they're intelligent, they'll know that and avoid it!"

Abby frowned. "Didn't that sort of backfire with the mushroom people?"

"Yes, but these are zombies! Completely different!"

"In what way?"

When Abby stared at him with sceptical blue eyes like so, Connor didn't have a good answer; finally he shrugged. "Look, I dunno! You were the one who said I knew things!"

"You were scared," Abby sighed. "I was trying to improve your confidence."

"Oh. Well..." Connor trailed off, his eyes narrowing. "What a minute, what else have you been saying just to help my confidence?"

"Trust me," she said, "you don't want the list. All right, fire it is."

A sound in the distance, like a bird's call but slightly flat. Connor remembered that sound from Becker's repeated attempts to drill something like military coordination into the field team. He and Abby shared a nod.

"They made it," Abby said. "Let's go..."

They retreated back through the bushes, then turned and ran down a couple of side streets before finding themselves in a little wooded path that came out behind the church. The same sort of trees as had been planted in front lent a peaceful air to a small, probably ancient graveyard. On the far side of it, Becker and Reverend Paul could be seen crouched in front of the church's basement bulkhead.

"Can't say I fancy the setting..." Abby murmured.

"At least it's not a shopping centre," Connor said. "On three?"

Abby nodded and took his hand. On the count of three, they ducked low and raced across the graveyard to join the others. Becker, who was just about to chirp again, fell back against the church with a groan.

"In your own time, Temples. We'd nearly given up hope for you."

Abby looked a little surprised by the moniker, but Connor grinned. "Wouldn't miss a meeting with me own best man."

Becker winced. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."

"But I've had good luck with persistence in the past, haven't I?"

"Persistence, pleading," Abby said. "Something like that..."

Reverend Paul looked at them all as though they were mental, and in all fairness to the good reverend, after four to six years spent in the ARC, it was more likely than not.

"We've scouted the perimeters and seen indications of their presence, but they've not made themselves known." The tall man reached for the rusty latch on the bulkhead. "Basement's here."

He grasped the latch handle and pulled- and stopped dead. Pulled several more times, with no more result. By the final try, he was growling with frustration.

"It's jammed!"

"Keep your voice down!" Abby hissed. "Do you want to draw them?"

Reverend Paul went down to his knees on the ground, the better to grapple with the latch. "I can't work the mechanism! I think someone's-"

"Watch out," Becker said, a little too calmly,

Sounds from the wooded area behind the graveyard; almost before Connor had identified them, they resolved themselves into the shapes of plague victims, staggering out from cover so blindly, it was hard to believe they'd just pulled off a complicated manoeuvre to expertly shift their trap to the opposite flank. They had the entire group surrounded.

"Come on!" Abby cried. "Get it open!"

She hurried to assist Reverend Paul with the door, while Connor and Becker opened up with their EMD's. They managed to hold the infected back temporarily, but every time they scored a hit, the plague victim simply picked themselves back up. After several moments of this, Connor was worried about the charge level his weapon's power pack.

"Becker! How many shots have you got left?"

The other man shrugged. "More than you. I don't waste as many of mine."

"I'm not wasting!" Connor snapped. "I'm providing... covering fire!"

Becker laughed. "'Covering everything but your target' is more like it!"

From the corner of his eye, he saw Reverend Paul abandon all subtlety and start pounding on the bulkhead. Abby finally intervened and pushed him away.

"Stand back! Let me try..."

At that point, the zombies renewed their attack and Connor found himself a bit occupied, but he could still guess what was happening because he knew its sound so well: the familiar trio, centring breath-focusing cry-impact, that came with Abby delivering a scissor kick. Connor heard more than one strike home as the plague victims pushed him and Becker back ever closer to the bulkhead. In moments, Abby wouldn't have any space to work with, and then-

"Connor, aim for the torso!" Becker growled.

Connor blinked. He must have missed a few shots while he was worrying about Abby. "I'm trying, aren't I? I can't say I like your attitude! Just for that, Matt's now my best man!"

Becker laughed. "Like he'd do a proper job of it..."

"Oh, and you would?"

"Connor Temple, if there's one thing you should know about me-" Becker quickly sidestepped, ripped away Reverend Paul's conventional rifle, and fired repeatedly up into the trees, bringing branches both large and small down on top of the nearest plague victims, a neat instant fortification. The security captain stood back and grinned. "I_ know_ how to throw a party!"

Meanwhile, Abby rubbed her hands together, inhaled a long breath, and drew back for a final, desperate kick. "_Hyyyaaaaa_-"

At which point, the bulkhead sprung open and Abby nearly fell down the stairs. She barely caught herself in the arms of a weathered old woman bearing a candle, who frowned at them all as though they were neighbourhood kids on a lark.

"Gracious, child! What do you think you're doing? Do you want to break the door?"

Abby stared at her incredulously. "Erm... _yeah!_"

"I thought you were one of them!" The old woman then caught sight of Reverend Paul and gasped. "Oh, Reverend! Thank God! Well, come inside- come on, quickly!"

Reverend Paul didn't have to be asked twice. After firing a couple of shots from his rifle to continue Becker's work, he turned and dashed down the basement stairs. Abby started to follow, then reached out and nicked the old woman's candle.

"Mind if I borrow this? Thanks." She held it up to her team-mates, who were back to firing their EMD's. "Connor!"

"Yeah," Connor grinned. "I think that'll work..."

Abby took two steps and hurled the candle into the brush Becker had brought down. After a moment, some of the smaller branches caught- and then the large ones. Then one of the nearest infected was caught in the flames, and shrieked. Connor winced, feeling that rather unlucky for the plague victim, even though they'd been so changed that the sound barely resembled a human voice. But it did inspire the others to keep their distance.

Now with a small ring of flame between them and the plague victims, Abby dashed down the stairs, with Connor and Becker just behind her. The old woman slammed the door in their wake, and Connor's world momentarily turned pitch-black...

xxxxx

The vaunted laboratory turned out to be a run-down, apparently abandoned place with broken or boarded-up windows and tables full of beakers and microscopes, either covered over or simply left to deteriorate. It all reminded Emily Merchant of one of her few sci-fi experiences that pre-dated Connor, a book from a few years before her own time by a woman named Mary Shelley. Emily suspected she was one of the readers who never wondered why the fictional Dr. Frankenstein felt tempted to cheat the rules of the Universe, but rather, why so many other people _didn't_.

But even by her standards- outcast from her society, veteran time-traveller, and all- playing with exotic diseases and contagions and creatures one didn't understand seemed awfully reckless, and likely to end unhappily. She only hoped the monsters created by Elizabeth Evans could be dispensed with as easily as putting aside a novel.

At first glance, the only thing in the room that appeared new was the electronic lock, and Mrs. Evans turned aside before entering several codes, jealously guarding her leverage. Emily found herself glancing at Will and wondering how many of her secrets he knew, and from there, whether they could manage without the difficult matron in a pinch...

She put that aside when Mrs. Evans completed her task and the overhead lights flickered to life, allowing Emily a better look around the room.

"Overdue for a dusting, isn't it?" she said.

Mrs. Evans smirked. "You'd be surprised how far a layer of dust can go to disguise a state-of-the-art research centre as an overlooked relic."

"Yeah," Matt said, "but does any of this stuff still work?""

"I should be able to help you with that," Robert said. "I used to assist my dad; I don't really understand what most of the devices do, but I can turn them on and all."

"All right, get them working. I'll take it from there."

From the look of things, Emily assumed Robert Downing would have his work cut out for him. She quickly found, however, that she had underestimated both the room and Mrs. Evans. Many of the covered-over tables proved to hold computer equipment that looked modern. (Well, _all _computers were super-modern to Emily, so it was difficult to estimate; but the devices looked _new_, at any rate, and well-maintained.)

When they seemed well on their way to booting up (Emily felt proud of herself for remembering the term), Matt turned again to Mrs. Evans, who was watching over the computers like a proud mother.

"Where's the telephone? Ring Lester, or I will."

Mrs. Evans didn't have any substantive objection to that, of course- she'd demanded it- but she seemed to take offence at Matt's tone. While looking for something to do rather than listen to her griping, Emily's eyes fell on Fred Downing, the little boy, standing alone in the far corner of the room while the grown-ups fell into another squabble. Emily made her way over to him.

"Fred, was it?" she said when they stood side-by-side. "I'm Emily. Hello."

"Hi," the boy murmured.

Emily smiled. "Are you a bit frightened, Fred?"

The boy looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes, and said in possibly the most patronizing voice Emily had ever heard, "There's zombies. Wouldn't I be awfully stupid if I wasn't scared?"

Emily blinked in surprise. In her time, any child who spoke to an adult in such a manner would have been automatically and severely disciplined- but then, she sometimes thought that was a big part of the problem with her time, and it was an awfully good point.

"Yeah, you would." She laughed. "Look, we're very good at this. Well, not_ this_, but things like it. Whatever happens, we'll protect you."

Fred looked across the room at Mrs. Evans as she stood toe-to-toe with Matt- a look of pure poison, such as she'd rarely seen from anyone of any age.

"You gonna protect her, too?"

Emily sighed. "We're going to protect everyone- whether or not they deserve it."

As she watched Mrs. Evans dial the phone she'd finally located, she felt her gaze frost over. So much suffering, so many lost, perhaps forever, an entire _town_... all because Elizabeth Evans and her friends wanted to study anomalies.

"She killed my granddad," Fred said. "The copper helped. Don't trust them."

"Don't worry," Emily told the boy. "I don't."

_Trapped in a terrifying little town, monsters all around us, murderers in our midst... _Emily sighed. _I wonder what Princess Leia would do at a time like this..._

The answer to her question, which Emily would not have recognised at the time but which later would seem rather important, was: A Jedi Princess might have sensed the tiny, multicoloured frog slowly forcing its way in through one of the patched-up windows...

xxxxx

The old woman led them from stairs into the church basement and clicked on a dim, flickering overhead light bulb. Five other people- four adults, one of them carrying an infant- huddled in the small, cramped space, amongst boxes of old tools and used prayer books. It might have been the most depressing thing Abby Maitland had ever seen.

It had lots of competition today. For most of the afternoon, her fiancée had been insisting it was a really good day, but Abby didn't see it. First they'd kept her up until all hours with those silly films. Emily could afford to love them; she wasn't the one who didn't get any sleep until Connor finally stopped humming the _Imperial March_, hours later!

Even so, the two of them driving out to the country in a convertible might have been a lovely break. Doing so with the entire team in one of the ARC's trucks and spending an hour stuck in traffic made her feel like one of the time-displaced animals in the menagerie- a creature meant to be free, trapped forever in the dark. Abby was working on a new proposal to do something for said creatures, but the anomalies never gave her a moment to breathe, and the wedding preparations took up approximately 120 percent of her spare time. Connor seemed to feel that weddings sprang out of the ground, fully formed! For absent-minded grooms, perhaps they did.

She knew she was snapping at him today, and Connor might not have deserved that- but she couldn't help feeling rankled by the whole thing, his absolute _glee_ over making a convert, as though that was the really important thing going on right now...

She was probably obsessing over small problems because they took her mind off the large problem of imminent death approaching. It seemed to Abby that death had been getting rather close, rather often lately. Maybe arguing with Connor was her way of taking him for granted, so she wouldn't have to think about how fragile all their plans might turn out to be...

_We can hope not, _she'd said to Connor when he'd asked if these adventures would ever end. She would have meant that, once. Did she still? Did she really want to keep fighting wild creatures and exotic plagues... forever?

Time enough for that when there was time. For now, their problems were more immediate. And a few of them were simple. For example:

"Who are you, exactly?" she asked the old woman.

"This is Mrs. Ridley, our housekeeper," Reverend Paul said. He frowned at the old woman- about one-third guilt and two-thirds recrimination. "Whom I had thought lost to the initial uprising."

"I nearly was," Mrs. Ridley said. "I barely locked myself down here. Later, when they'd gone, I ventured into town. Anyone I could find, I brought back here. As you can see, there weren't many."

"Why didn't they spring the trap then?" Becker wondered.

"Maybe they knew who they wanted," Connor said.

Mrs. Ridley made a face. "Don't be absurd, child! They're reduced to beasts, aren't they? It's obvious!"

"It's obvious they don't have a lot of fine control over the bodies," Connor said. "The minds are something else. I think we have to assume they can use anything the victims know against us."

"They're getting stronger, too," Abby said. "Earlier, I was able to examine one. Now it spreads with the slightest touch."

Connor nodded. "It's adaptive. The more people it takes, the quicker it happens. The real problem is when it becomes airborne."

"Or contaminates the water supply," Abby pointed out. "The whole lake could be deadly."

Becker said, "That would be the lake with the anomaly we've got to close, right?"

"Yup, that's a bit of a problem," Connor said. "I can adjust the locking device to fire more of a dispersed beam, so we don't have to get as close. The bigger problem is, the device itself is upstairs."

"Excuse me," Mrs. Ridley said. "You wouldn't be talking about this silly thing?"

She held up a black briefcase- with, it had to be noted, somewhat less difficulty than Connor had earlier. Abby, Connor, and Becker all stared at the old woman, then at each other.

"I thought it was a record player," Mrs. Ridley explained. "I brought it down to entertain the others, but then Ruth Canby got taken right outside that window and we realized sound was a poor idea. Which was just as well, because I didn't bring my Frank Sinatra records."

_Alas, _Abby thought, with a sideways glance at Connor.

"It's brilliant all the same," he said. Retrieving the locking mechanism from Mrs. Ridley, he sat down with it, a pair of work gloves, and a box of tools, and began tinkering.

Abby was a little more worried about the window Mrs. Ridley had indicated. When her eyes automatically followed the gesture, she thought she'd seen the infected moving again. Her eyes turned to the bulkhead, expecting another assault-

The first, sharp _bang! _came from the other direction, instead: from the inner door leading up to the chapel, which some of the survivors had reinforced with trunks and boxes. Even so, the wooden door began to tremble, as the banging came repeatedly, quickly, and with ever more force.

Abby turned to her team-mates and sighed. "I doubt that'll hold them for long. Any clever ideas?"

Soldier and scientist, housekeeper and holy man all seemed dry of inspiration. So they would wait in the basement, fight, and die at best. At worst-

Well, either way they were going to make Connor's prediction of a good day look pretty silly.


	5. Act Four

**Primeval 6.2 **(Working Title: "Something Old, Something New")

by qjay

___DISCLAIMER: Primeval was created by Adrian Hodges and Tim Haines. It does not belong to me. This is not-for-profit fan fiction, and no infringement is intended._

xxxxx

**Act Four**

___Wham! Wham! Bam! Whack! Slam!_ The infected continued pounding on the inner basement door, while Connor Temple tried to keep his hands from shaking in his work gloves. The adjustments they needed to the locking mechanism were basic and extremely simple- so long as he could breathe. When he stopped breathing, he lost all feeling in his fingers, and then the work became complex. He also stopped paying attention to what he was saying, which tended to get him into trouble.

"Abby," he said, "if those things get in here, don't let me be turned. Kill me first."

"Connor, no! That's horrible! I won't!"

"Oh, good," he said. "I was _so_ bluffing..."

One adjustment, two. When he had the locking device the way he wanted it, to fire a dispersed beam that would saturate a lot of lake from a distance, he looked up to see if Becker had any ideas about how to get the device into position. He found the security captain already ahead of him, staring though the small window above that looked out on the graveyard and their improvised bonfire.

"Connor," Becker said slowly, "just how clever are these things?"

"I think it's like a group consciousness," he said. "Each victim's brain, at least the part of the brain they can access, becomes like one cell in a massive organism. So they get smarter with each person they absorb."

"Right," Becker murmured. "They're pretty good at tactics. So if they're making a lot of noise at the inner door, what d'you reckon they want us to do?"

"Make our escape out the back," Reverend Paul said immediately. "We shan't give them the satisfaction!"

"Yes, we shall." Becker squared his shoulders and turned. "At least I shall."

"No!" Abby said immediately. "No way! You're not going out there!"

"Someone's got to seal it," Becker said. He looked around the room before focusing intently on Connor and Abby. "Now, listen: We make a lot of noise at the inner door. Make them think we're coming through that way. Frontal assault. But don't actually shift any boxes- maybe we can decoy them. Soon as you see them move, you two open up on anything that shows its face out in the graveyard. That might just buy me enough time."

"Yeah, but you can't go alone!" Connor said. "If they get you, they'll know everything they could want about the ARC and-"

"Connor," Becker said quietly. "They won't take me alive. Never. I promise."

"I don't know if you meant that to be reassuring, but it really wasn't."

The security captain clasped him on the shoulder- talking to him, for once, like a team-mate and a friend. "Look, why do you think Matt put me with you? He knows if his plan fails, you're our best hope of finding some way to stop these things. Now, that anomaly has to be closed- and right now, I'm sorry, Connor: I'm expendable and you're not. Maybe I can keep them off you for a little while."

Connor shook his head, trying to think of some clever argument. "Now, wait. Look. You can't-"

"If they give you an opening, run. Otherwise, hold here as long as you can. If I don't come back, it'll be up to the pair of you to protect these people. Understand?"

Connor felt himself nodding. Abby was beside him, making a sort of affirmative sound. Becker looked from one to the other and nodded.

"If Matt comes back, tell him where I've gone."

"Wait!" Connor grabbed the other's wrist as he turned. "Do you even know how to lock an anomaly without tech support?"

"Push the little buttons?"

"Yes. Good. Eh... do you know _which_ buttons, specifically?"

Becker took a deep breath, sighed. "I'll work it out..."

Abby threw herself into his arms and hugged him. "Becker, be careful. Don't touch the water."

"I'll be fine."

Connor held out his hand. "Good luck."

Becker clasped his hand and they shook; then the security captain grinned. "If I survive, I owe you a _hell_ of a party."

"Deal, mate."

The moment passed. Becker withdrew his hand and took a long step back. Whatever he felt passed across his face in a fraction of a second, and then was buried. He raised his voice to encompass the room. "All right! Here's how it'll work..."

He assigned some of the survivors to make a good deal of noise at the inner door, then positioned Reverend Paul at the stairs and Connor and Abby at the window. When Becker was ready, he hefted his EMD rifle and started counting to ten. On three, the survivors began banging and thumping and raising bedlam. By seven, the infected in the graveyard were scurrying around like targets in a shooting gallery on the other side of the bonfire, and Connor and Abby laid down as much fire as they could. Connor thought they knocked down at least three of them, but it was hard to say.

On ten, Reverend Paul yanked the bulkhead open and commenced firing his conventional rifle. Becker lowered his head and steamed up the stairs, pausing at the top to batter a plague victim with the stock of his rifle. Reverend Paul shut the door, and he was gone. Connor caught about half a glimpse of him racing through the graveyard toward the trees, but had no idea if he made it.

Connor leaned heavily against the wall and moaned, wishing he'd thought to explain to Becker what generally happened to people who wandered off alone in these zombie things...

xxxxx

Back at the hub of the Anomaly Research Centre, James Lester had barely absorbed the ramifications of one unwelcome caller, and now he was dealing with a second. Matt Anderson had finally gotten a call through to the ARC and had cancelled the medical backup he requested earlier, since the plague was spreading much too fast for Southfield to be spared that way. Now he had a new request, which was relayed through possibly the last person Lester wanted to hear from right now.

"_Elizabeth Evan_s? Yes, I do seem to recall a rather annoying local politician by that name. I don't seem to recall caring very much."

"Oh, believe me, James, you'll care," said the self-satisfied, filtered voice. "Reference the ARC database, Project 197."

Lester glanced down at a worried-looking Jess and hissed out a long breath. "Do it."

Jess complied, and the Anomaly Detector that generally occupied most of her screens blinked out, replaced by a maze of schematics, plans, reports, and scientific records. Lester only had to let his eyes scan them for a moment; he already knew most of what they'd say, and the briefest examination suggested it was even worse than he'd thought.

"Elizabeth Evans," he repeated. "Yes, it's coming back to me now..."

"I thought it would," she said. "Now, listen carefully, James, because I'm not accustomed to repeating myself: There is but one way to prevent our science project getting out-"

Jess looked up sharply and muted the audio. "_Our_ project? Did you have a hand in this?"

"Above my level," Lester murmured. "I knew of it, but had little influence."

That didn't seem to make Jess very happy, but it had the virtue of being mostly true. Lester took a breath and addressed his caller again. "Elizabeth, that project was suspended, years ago. If you continued it on your own, without authorization, that is most unfortunate."

"Might I remind you," she said, "of the importance of what I've been doing?"

"Might I remind _you_ the Minister dislikes being double-crossed?" Lester snapped. "You are treading a dangerous line."

"Then we'll tread it together. I shall put the fail-safe into operation. As you know, it's liable to be a touch temperamental, so you'll have an airlift prepared to evacuate us when it's done."

Lester glanced down at Jess, wondering if she was troubled by the same detail as he. From the way her eyes narrowed, she was, which didn't make Lester feel better. It meant the problem was real.

"I would have evacuated my team at any moment, Elizabeth. Why in the world are we having this conversation?"

He could almost hear the reptilian smile on the other end of the line. "Because there's more I want."

Jess tossed up her hands in exasperation. She was worried about Becker, as well she might. Lester wished one person was all he had to worry about. He waited for Elizabeth Evans to continue.

"Full immunity," she said. "I am not to be arrested, prosecuted, or so much as questioned, or I will let them die."

"If they die, so do you!" Jess blurted.

"Yes, I'm sure, my dear. I am prepared for that; I've no doubt several of my colleagues in town have already availed themselves of the option. Believe me when I tell you the fate that awaits me, either here in town or on the outside without protection, would not be preferable. I hope we understand each other now, James."

"Yes, I think we do," Lester said. He felt his face contorted with rage, and forced it to relax. "Is Matt Anderson with you?"

A moment later, a more familiar voice crackled through the line: "I'm here, Lester."

"Matt, if you should be forced by circumstances to shoot this annoying woman, please don't let me stop you. I'm fully prepared to arrange the paperwork."

"I'm sure you are," said Mrs. Evans, "and I am fully prepared to send off an e-mail detailing the complete operation here to the world. I do think the Minister will be rather cross about that, and of course, I'll be gone, so who do you imagine he'll blame? You can't protect your friends when you're sacked."

Working for the ARC, amidst a team of talented, erratic geniuses, James Lester needed a good deal of reserve. He cultivated it. So it surprised him at least as much as Jess when he heard his fist come down on her console hard enough to pop one of his knuckles out of joint. He barely registered the pain.

"At this moment, Elizabeth, you cannot imagine what a _relief_ it would be to be sacked!" He caught a glimpse of Jess from the corner of his eye. The horror in her eyes made him regroup, but only slightly. "If you think I'll allow you to endanger my team-"

"Your team is as good as dead," the cold voice replied. "Only I can save them. So: Airlift. Full immunity. The Minister's personal assurance. You have fifteen minutes."

The line went dead. Jess was still staring. Lester cradled his wounded hand and shut his eyes tight, wishing that by doing so, he could hold back the pounding in his skull.

Connor had once commented, when he'd thought Lester couldn't hear, on the exorbitant size of the ARC director's salary. Perhaps he'd never thought to ask himself what exactly Lester did to earn that money. Usually it was something vital and distasteful that would only damage the sound sleep of an innocent like Connor Temple. Lester thought this a better-than-usual example...

xxxxx

Abby Maitland had to stand on a box to get a really good look out the basement window into the graveyard. The multitude of shapes she saw moving amongst the flickering firelight did nothing to improve her mood; nor did the constant pounding on the inner door, which had returned the moment the infected realized no escape attempt was forthcoming in that direction. Mrs. Ridley was doing her best to keep the door braced, but she and her fellow survivors couldn't hold it forever.

"There's more of them now," Abby said. "The bonfire's going. I think we're surrounded."

Reverend Paul looked up from muttering prayers in the far corner. "I wonder if your friend made it to the lake."

"Wouldn't bet against him," Connor said. He stood beside Abby and took a nervous glance of his own at the situation outside. "I hope this place isn't overly, you know, flammable. That'd make my idea rubbish..."

Abby accepted his help down from the box, and held onto him an extra second. "It was all we had, Connor."

Reverend Paul said, "Burning to death would be preferable to death at their hands."

"Sorry," Connor said. "Are we talking about the same '_burning to death_?'"

Abby thought it a photo finish, so rather than contributing to that conversation, she checked the remaining charge in her EMD. She looked at Connor in alarm. "How many shots have you got left?"

"Three or four, I think."

"I've got half a dozen," Abby sighed. "Won't even slow them down."

"Then," said Reverend Paul, "we shall make our final stand against the forces of evil, armed with faith alone."

"You don't have to sound so excited about it!" Connor said. He sat down on one of the boxes, the better to avoid pacing the room. "Look, you don't understand. We can't die here. We've got a wedding to attend!"

Abby sat down beside him and buried her head in her hands. "The wedding. Yeah. You know what I told Emily about that? I said I wanted one moment for things to be okay- no creatures, no terror. Just us, getting married, being happy."

"Sounds nice," Connor said.

Abby scoffed, the bitterest sound she could imagine. "Even if we survive, we're never going to have that moment. We can't walk away."

"Abby..."

He touched her arm, but she shook him off. "Cutter never could. Stephen couldn't. You were right, Connor, this is our whole life. I'm not complaining; I wouldn't trade a second of it. But that moment would have been nice."

For a moment, there was only the thudding at the door, the quiet weeping of the survivors, and Reverend Paul muttering prayers. Abby closed her eyes and tried to think what she'd be doing now, if not for the ARC. Somehow feeding lions had lost its terror.

When she opened her eyes, Connor was kneeling on the dusty floor in front of her, just... staring, like he did when he was trying very hard to be taken seriously. Abby never had the heart to tell him that expression made her want to laugh.

"Abby," he said, "marry me. Now, right now."

"What?" She stared at him for a long moment, but the serious look didn't shift. "You're mad! We can't do that!"

Connor took both her hands. "We're trapped in a church, surrounded by zombies, with a minister and witnesses, but no weapons and no hope of escape. I'd say it's a_ really_ good time, actually."

"But we just set a date! We'd be giving up on all our plans..."

"So?" Connor said. "In the unlikely event we survive, we'll have a ceremony. But let's have that moment, before it's too late. What do you say?"

Abby thought back on six years at the ARC, wondering if this was the silliest thing Connor had ever suggested- even worse than his idea to market diictodons as family pets! When she thought about it, it was the quintessential Connor Temple idea: Strange, completely impulsive, and in its own way, brilliant. So perhaps it made perfect sense. Still holding his hands, she jumped to her feet.

"Yes! All right! Let's do it, quickly!"

Connor turned to the minister with a smile that might have split his face in half. "Reverend? What about you?"

The upstairs door went _crunch_, drowning out a good deal of Reverend Paul's sputtering. "I'm just a bit _busy_ right now! I've no intention of wasting time!"

"Sorry, are you part of the human race?" Abby frowned at him, awaiting his nod. "Then we saved your life one time; you owe us a favour."

The reverend brandished his rifle. "I intend to go down fighting, not playing silly games!"

"Oh, hush you and marry them!" Mrs. Ridley called. The old housekeeper hurried down the stairs and took something off her finger, holding it out to Abby: a beautiful, delicately filigreed old diamond ring.

"My late husband of 45 years gave me this. I think you'll be needing it."

Abby pushed her hands away. "No. Oh, no, we couldn't!"

"It's all right," the old woman said. "I never liked him."

From the look in her eyes, she was lying. Abby could almost imagine herself making such a joke, fifty years on. She'd always enjoyed the occasional laugh at Connor's expense. But she always knew when she was serious, too. She was serious about this, and by the look of her, so was Mrs. Ridley. As Abby accepted the ring, the old woman turned to Reverend Paul, clearly prepared to brook no disagreement on the minister's part.

Which was a handy expedient, since they really were out of time; the door upstairs was beginning to splinter, and soon the outer door was pounding, as well.

_'Till death do us part_, Abby thought, wishing they didn't always have to be so literal about such things...

xxxxx

Jess Parker stood in the doorway of James Lester's office, listening to an increasingly heated conversation she probably shouldn't be listening to. Lester was so out of sorts, he hardly seemed to notice her presence, a fact that made Jess intensely nervous.

_Secret projects and futuristic plague... and Becker out there in the middle of it! I should have insisted on going. Now that we're seeing each other, I have certain rights, and one of them should definitely be: He's not allowed to go and get killed and leave me facing the zombie apocalypse alone! That's definitely Rule One. We'll establish these details, just as soon as he admits we're actually dating..._

As potentially awkward as that conversation might have been, James Lester's sounded worse. The ARC director was nearly as agitated as he'd been with Mrs. Evans, leaning over his desk and enunciating every word especially clearly into the telephone, as though he kept himself from shouting by force of will.

"Yes, Minister, I do understand... no, I would never wish to compromise your position. Well, sir, I could say the same. I was not informed the Southfield project had been permitted to continue without its lead scientist... With respect, if I'm sending my team into harm's way, I believe it_ becomes _my concern."

The Minister apparently disagreed. Jess watched Lester wince repeatedly, as though every word from the other end of the line was punctuated with a dagger thrust between his eyes. Finally, he rallied:

"Sir, this is no longer about _political_ realities. It is about the reality of a plague that, if our projections are accurate, may be less than half an hour from achieving critical mass- of the sort generally accompanied by plagues of locusts. Now, I suggest you give this woman what she wants!"

From Lester's expression, Jess didn't think he'd made any impression. She hung her head, wondering if there was any way she could re-route emergency help to Southfield, perhaps with Lester's codes. She'd have to hack a few military databases and probably go to prison for quite a long time, but for Becker's sake...

"Yes, sir," Lester breathed. "Yes, sir, I will. Thank you. Goodbye."

He looked at the receiver for a long moment, as though it was the source of all his troubles and could perhaps be strangled to death, before hanging up the telephone with a touch more than necessary force. Finally, he turned to Jess.

"The Minister's making the call. Get the evacuation in the air."

"Right. Well done." Jess took a step toward the door, then hesitated. "Are they all right? You... haven't heard anything about Becker, have you?"

Lester frowned. "You know, I haven't, but I could approach him on the Quidditch field after Professor Snape's class and ask whether he fancies you, or one of the other students here at Hogwart's."

Jess supposed she deserved that, so she accepted it without complaint. Anyway, the best thing she could do for Becker right now was her job. First, however, there was one other question that concerned her...

"Did you mean what you said?" she asked Lester, "about wanting to be sacked?"

The ARC director looked away. "I don't see how that's relevant."

"It is to us. Your replacement would only be worse." By the expression on his face, she'd botched another one. Jess felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but muddled through. "What I mean is... the line you walk, between politics and disaster... no one else could do it as well. We need you."

Lester stared at her for a long second, before easing himself into his chair. He nodded to Jess.

"Thank you. Now, go help them."

Jess turned on her heel and hurried to make the call. Although Lester would never admit it, she thought she'd gotten through to him with that last. Even if she couldn't be in the field or help from the Hub this time, perhaps she'd made a contribution in some small way. The optimist in Jess- and Jess was almost entirely optimist- felt sure of that.

She probably wouldn't have been so confident if she'd heard the coda to their conversation that took place as soon as she left the room...

xxxxx

"Now, isn't that sweet?" said a voice at James Lester's elbow. "The girl is loyal."

"Leave her out of this."

"Oh, no," said the battered future version of Matt Anderson, who stepped around the desk, the better to glower at Lester head-on. "I don't think I will. I see no reason to play nice with you, James- not when you and yours are responsible for the coming horror."

Lester let out a frustrated hiss. "As annoying as your apparent prescience is, Matt, you might keep in mind that none of it has happened as yet. I have no idea what I've done to deserve this."

"Then let me give you a clue." The future Matt leaned across the desk, his voice reduced to a whisper, his desperation evident. "You may stop this plague now, but remember: In a world with anomalies, items from the future can reappear in the past at any moment. So when it finally migrates to the Triassic or the Permian and takes over a world before humans, what do you suppose happens to us?"

Lester leaned back in his seat and stared at the other man. The future Matt simply held his eyes, painfully sincere. Slowly, it began to dawn on the ARC's director that this whole temporal muddle might be something worse than a passing nuisance...

xxxxx

In his time working for the ARC, Captain Becker had often been taken by surprise by the creatures they faced: at first, just learning they were real was quite the shock to his system. But he didn't think he'd ever been so surprised as he was by these plague victims. He'd expected his escape to be a straight-ahead flight from a lot of lumbering morons, but it turned out to be something more on the order of playing war-games: his opponents split up, flanked him, attempted to heard him into dead ends, and showed every sign of being the coordinated intelligence Connor described. Fortunately, Becker prided himself on adapting to new situations quickly...

He crouched behind a tree several metres from the lake, waiting for a patrol of plague victims to pass. When they'd gone, Becker turned and crept in the other direction. His timing had to be perfect, and he counted off the seconds in his head:

_Three... two... one!_

He leaped out from cover behind the hidden plague victim, the one they'd left lying in wait in case he tried to double back. If the sentry so much as saw Becker before he went down, the game would be up, as all the other plague victims would be alerted to his position. Becker put an EMD bolt into the back of the unfortunate fellow's head without so much as a whisper of warning.

Thinking he'd bought himself a few moments, Becker hurried through the trees toward the lake, navigating by the positions of the stars. Soon he found the path he'd been on with Connor and Abby earlier in the day, and scurried down it double-quick, still clutching the case for the locking device, with his rifle held ready in his free hand. He saw no further infected, which made him nervous.

He burst through the last line of trees and found himself on the banks of Southfield Lake. The moon shimmering off the water gave it the look of a placid mirror, reflecting infinity back to Becker, or perhaps Becker to infinity.

Becker looked around in all directions, but still saw no plague victims. He tried to console himself with the thought that perhaps they didn't know the lake- the anomaly itself- was important. Perhaps they weren't so clever, after all. Either way, there was nothing to be done for it. The anomaly had to be located. He carried the locking device down to the edge of the water, his eyes scanning in all directions. At one point, he thought he heard rustling in the trees, but... nothing.

"All right," he murmured aloud. "Where are you?"

A frog leaped out of the water, toward Becker's boot. He kicked it away, annoyed at first. Then he remembered Abby's words:_ The whole lake could be contaminated_. And everything in it? He eased a little further from the water.

He looked out across the lake again. The damned moonlight made it very hard to get a good read on anything. Of _course_ there was a full moon. Didn't that just make things even better?

Becker stopped, frowned. _Don't be stupid. Full moon's a werewolf thing. You're spending too much time with Connor..._

Shaking his head, he moved on- and stopped. He looked up at the sky: It was completely black. It wasn't a full moon at all; it was new. Which meant...

Becker dropped his eyes to the silver-and-gold glow on the water. It wasn't reflected on the surface. It was coming from beneath the surface: a fractured, metallic glow like...

"_Got_ you," Becker grinned, and ran around the banks of the lake to get as close to the source of the glow as he could. Three more frogs jumped out at him; he kicked two away and crushed another as he ran. He started paying more attention to his footing...

It wasn't until he began setting up the locking device that the rustling from the trees returned in earnest. Soon, three more plague victims had appeared, converging on him from different directions, while the eyes of multiple frogs popped up at the water's edge...

_Oh, dear._ Becker pictured his obituary: _'Captain Hilary Becker, army veteran and national hero, struck down in his prime by countless tiny frogs.'_ As though the 'Hilary' part wasn't bad enough- tiny frogs! Even Jess might laugh at that one.

_Jess. I should have told her... you know. Of course, the fact that I can't even say it to _myself_ doesn't speak well for my chances of successfully telling her anything. Maybe she knows already. I hope she does..._

The frogs formed up at the edge of the water, almost a skirmish line of them, waiting for some invisible horn to sound the charge. Meanwhile, the human victims advanced, cutting off Becker's escape. He had the locking device set up now, and managed to start the program. He struggled to recall the proper commands...

Another frog leaped forward. Becker crushed it, then whirled and fired multiple EMD shots into the water, scattering them. Somehow he didn't expect they'd vanish for long...

The human victims pulled into a tight circle around Becker. He set his jaw, unwilling to give ground, and pumped multiple shots into each of them in turn. They were knocked down, but struggled to their feet almost as quickly...

Another command, a second, a third. Becker pounded the 'ENTER' key...

The locking device buzzed into operation, firing Connor's widely dispersed beam into the centre of the lake. The glow abruptly dimmed as the anomaly beneath the surface shrank into itself and locked. Becker turned and smashed the nearest victim with the stock of his rifle, knocking him back. He broke through the sudden opening and ran for the trees.

_Ribbit. Ribbit. Urp-urp-urp-ribbit._ He could actually _hear_ the frogs behind him, leaping to the pursuit. One or two nipped at Becker's heels, but none touched his skin. The heavier footfalls of the human infected were not far behind...

He reached the nearest tree with a reasonably thick truck and tried a leap of his own, catching a lower limb and vaulting up into its branches. From what he'd seen, he didn't think the human victims could muster the coordination to follow. As for the frogs...

_Oh, damn. I didn't think about them. Are they tree frogs? Can they follow? I suppose I'd better hope they can't..._

He grabbed the trunk of the tree and held on for dear life. Meanwhile, the human victims were scraping at the branches beneath him, almost frustrated by their failure to prevent his escape. Becker tossed them a salute and reached for the next branch...

He stopped. One of the devils had seized his boot, and now pulled with all its might. Becker was pulled back, short of his goal. The boot began to slip off his foot; his fingertips brushed the next branch, missed it, and Becker lost his balance...


	6. Act Five

**Primeval 6.2 **(Working Title: "Something Old, Something New")

by qjay

___DISCLAIMER: Primeval was created by Adrian Hodges and Tim Haines. It does not belong to me. This is not-for-profit fan fiction, and no infringement is intended._

xxxxx

**Act Five**

Matt Anderson stood hunched over the laboratory's computer, scrolling through screen after screen of data and periodically swearing to himself. In truth, Emily Merchant had lost track of what exactly he was doing, and she certainly couldn't help him do it, so she contented herself with staying off to the side and trying to keep the Downing family calm. It was hardest with the father, who felt nervous and guilty about the whole thing; Kate accepted the undead plague with the same equanimity with which she might have handled enemy fire in Iraq, and her son had inherited something of her temperament.

Of course, Mrs. Evans was the star of the room, complete with sulking bodyguard. She beamed as she listened to the telephone. Will Thomas kept scowling at her, but didn't seem to feel it was safe to abandon her, either.

"A most sensible decision, Minister! Thank you!" she crowed, before hanging up the phone and turning to Matt. "We'll have a helicopter in the next fifteen minutes."

Emily stirred. "We still have people out there in the town."

"Likely dead. Leave them."

Matt barely glanced at her. "It would be much easier to tolerate you if you'd stop saying such things."

"Merely trying to acquaint you with reality." Mrs. Evans spread her hands, a magnanimous gesture, as she left behind the console and stepped over to the window. Perhaps she thought she'd hear the rotors sooner that way. "You really never have spent much time with reality, have you, future man? You escaped your own time and hid from this one. Meanwhile, miracles occurred beneath your nose."

"I'm beginning to realize that." Matt gestured to Robert Downing, who joined him at the console. "What am I seeing here?"

"It's my father's main database. Every experiment he ever performed."

Matt frowned. "But there are records here of creatures from the Cretaceous, the Devonian, the Pliocene..."

That triggered Emily's memory. "Reverend Paul mentioned a man who'd been seeing giant fish in the lake for decades."

"Don't you see what you've done?" Matt asked Mrs. Evans. "You've mixed so many exotic germs and creatures from different eras...your whole lake is a bio-hazard bomb waiting to explode! And then this one, smart bug from the future came along to light the fuse..."

"That lake is a tourist spot," Emily added. "Just how many people have you endangered here?"

"How many _subjects_, you mean." Mrs. Evans didn't deny it; she barely even shrugged. "If you'll call up a map on that screen, you'll see a generator located in a disguised storage shed on the other side of town. With my access code, I can trigger a pulse that will disable all infected life."

"All your _victims_," Emily snapped, not accepting her term for a second.

"What's the code?" Matt said.

Mrs. Evans leaned back against the wall, beneath the window, chuckling. "Oh, no, future man. That code ensures you still need me."

"You stupid woman!" Emily took a step toward her, incensed. "Is that all you care about? You're a monster!"

That finally caught Mrs. Evans' attention, for a moment. "No, dear. I create monsters for profit, a subtle but important distinction."

"But who pays you?" Matt asked. "Who would want this done?"

"That would be telling tales out of school, Mr. Anderson. Suffice it to say, you're very naïve about-"

At that point, fate or destiny or karma or something equally difficult for a time traveller to accept took a hand, in the form of a small, multicoloured frog that dropped down from the windowsill and landed squarely on Mrs. Evans' unprotected neck.

For a moment they all stared, even the woman herself, not quite prepared to process what was already happening. And perhaps it wasn't fate; perhaps it was nothing but chance that positioned Mrs. Evans in just that spot beneath the window at precisely the right moment. If so, it was horrible and appropriate at the same time, the sort of chance that had only happened to Emily once in her entire life, when her late husband discovered that murderous velociraptors were not merely her fantasy. She wouldn't have wished another moment like that on anyone, not even Mrs. Evans, but she could see it unfolding: Disbelief at first, surprise, then horror. And then- something like determination not to let it end this way. Emily wouldn't have credited Mrs. Evans with that kind of steel, but it was there.

Just as suddenly, it was done. The terrible, gut-wrenching, satisfying moment passed, and Mrs. Evans batted the small amphibian off her neck instinctively, which only got more of its slime on her hand. It landed in the corner, and Will crushed it with the wooden plank he'd been carrying in lieu of an EMD.

Mrs. Evans turned to Matt, her eyes as wide as saucers. "No. No, it can't be. It _can't_. It- arrgh!"

She was in pain already, the red welts breaking out on her neck and spreading up her arm. Emily averted her eyes, anticipating the inevitable. She did not anticipate the next thing Mrs. Evans said.

"It's too late," she told Matt, very deliberately. "You must kill me."

Emily looked up sharply. "Matt, no! You can't!"

"If he doesn't, you'll all die, they will know more about anomalies than I dare say you do yourselves, and I will endure a fate of unimaginable agony which will doom the world! This is what I was desperate to avoid. I _will not_ suffer the pain or the humiliation. You _must_ do it."

Matt stared at her, then at the EMD pistol in his hand. The weapons had done very little good against the plague, but while Mrs. Evans remained human, she would presumably suffer the same fate as any other human if shot point-blank at the weapon's highest setting, which was meant for large dinosaurs rather than modestly-sized mammals: Seizure, cardiac arrest. Death.

As deliberate as Mrs. Evans, Matt hiked the weapon's setting all the way to the top. He aimed the weapon at her, his face a mask of stoic determination; Emily had always guessed there was that side to him. He must have done awful things, resigned himself to the necessity of awful things, to survive in his future. But he always kept that side carefully hidden. Now it was loose, and Emily wondered if the man she knew and cared about could ever completely escape from it.

"Matt!" Emily said again, more for his sake than the matron's.

Matt took a deep breath and looked Mrs. Evans in the eye. "Your code."

"Please..." Mrs. Evans grimaced as the red welts spread to her face. "_Please_!"

"The code first," Matt said, almost a whisper.

"11-3-1959. My birthday."

Despite herself, Emily murmured, "I suppose that's the most important date in the world to you."

Mrs. Evans didn't deny that, either. She just stared at Matt, nearly peaceful at the end.

"You have only seconds. Do it now."

Even as the disease spread across every inch of her exposed skin, Matt held his EMD pistol level with Mrs. Evans' head. Kate Downing pulled her son close to her, so he couldn't watch. Will looked on with something like fascination, while Robert Downing looked ashamed. Emily felt sick.

Matt's eyes narrowed for a moment and then cleared, as though he'd banished from himself the ability to feel anything at all.

He pulled the trigger. Elizabeth Evans died a human being. Emily hoped the same would someday be said of herself and her friends.

Matt holstered his weapon and turned away without a word.

xxxxx

Abby had gone up the stairs to help half the survivors brace the inner door, while the others protected the outer one. Once satisfied that everything possible was being done, she backed carefully down the stairs and met Connor Temple at the bottom.

"Hold the door as long as you can, but don't endanger yourselves. We'll be with you in a moment." She frowned at her fiancée, who was sorting through one of the boxes of old books. "Connor, are you ready?"

"We should have music," he said, pointing to a particular page in a hymnal. "How do you fancy a round of_ All Things Bright and Beautiful_?"

Abby beamed. "You remember."

"'Course," Connor said, thinking of the last time they'd found themselves hiding in a church, with Cutter. Their boredom had inspired an impromptu duet. "I know I get a lot of things wrong, Abby, always have. But I remember every second."

"Me, too."

Connor dropped the book and stood. He felt her hand wrap around his, and together they turned to Reverend Paul, who still looked a little put out, but seemed to have resigned himself.

"Quickly," Abby said. "We're running out of time."

The minister stepped forward, into the glow of the flickering bulb. Connor caught a glimpse of his weapon, propped against the wall behind him.

"Shotgun wedding," he murmured to Abby, and got an elbow in the ribs. But she smiled, too.

That smile, he knew, was the whole reason for everything. If it wasn't for that smile, he'd have gone back to playing X-Box with Duncan five years ago, and good riddance to a lot of big lizards trying to kill him. Because of that smile, he didn't regret a thing.

Reverend Paul cleared his throat. "Right, then. Do you- er, blonde girl- take this shabby little fellow as your husband, to love and cherish for as long as you shall live, so roughly for the next three minutes?"

Abby arched her eyebrows, but said, "I do."

Connor stared at her, somehow unable to believe she'd actually said the words. That made her smile wider, for a second.

"And do you-" Reverend Paul hesitated.

"Connor Temple," he supplied.

"Don't care. Do you take blonde girl to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness, health, horrible infestation, etcetera and so forth?"

The outer door started shaking harder. Their witnesses struggled to brace it. Connor wasn't thinking about that at all. He was thinking about walking in the forest with Stephen Hart, telling the other man he thought he felt a connection with this zoo-keeper girl who, in all honesty, probably didn't know he was alive at the time...

"Well, do you?" the minister demanded.

"I..." Connor breathed. "Sorry, I just... I can't believe I'm saying this. I've thought about it, imagined it, even _dreamed_ about saying it, but I never thought I'd get the chance to-"

"Connor," Abby said, "you do realize they're at the door and you haven't_ actually_ said it yet?"

"Yup," Connor said. "Right. Um... I do."

The pounding on both doors intensified. Reverend Paul reached back for his rifle, while Mrs. Ridley hurried to shift some of the remaining boxes in front of the outer door. Connor turned to Abby, felt as though his grin might split his face in half She winked at him, and they embraced. It was a lovely moment, well worth dying for, though obviously it still paled beside those moments that didn't involve death at all.

"Well done," said Reverend Paul. "Power vested in me, man and wife, kiss the bride, now _help me brace this bloody door_!"

Abby titled her chin up and gave Connor a quick, soft kiss, then turned and ran toward the inner door, which was broken nearly in half by the constant efforts of the infected. After a few steps, she turned back, realizing Connor hadn't followed- or, indeed, moved at all.

"Connor! Our deal was, 'wedding, then fight to the death.' This is the second part!"

Still standing on the spot where they'd married, Connor looked all around the room- and started laughing. Even as the plague victims dented the outer bulkhead and Reverend Paul looked at him like he might just waste one of his precious bullets, he laughed.

"Connor, in your own time!"

"Sorry, darlin'," he said, "the joke's on you. We're not gonna do that second part. Not today. This just became the one day on which I absolutely _will not die_."

"That's a lovely sentiment," Abby said, "but there's no way out!"

Connor looked up at the flickering bulb. "That's because you're thinking like us. Got to think like a hero... like Becker or Danny. Or Stephen. Or the Doctor!"

Abby sighed. "Really, the _Doctor Who_ thing? Now?"

"If they had to survive... if they absolutely _had_ to live one more day... they wouldn't give up. They'd use anything at hand. What do we have? We have tools, light fixtures, empty EMD's..."

He trailed off. Ran to one of the boxes of tools and pulled out the work gloves with which he'd made an adjustment to the anomaly locking device before sending it off with Becker. Then he shifted the box and knelt on the ground beside a power outlet.

Connor looked up at Mrs. Ridley. "Does this work?"

"Yes, of course. But what good is it?"

Connor drew his EMD and emptied it of the power pack. Then he found his feet and ran to Abby.

"Give me yours."

Abby frowned at her weapon, nearly useless now. "Connor, you're not making sense. Even I know you can't just plug these things in. They're not meant to work like that!"

In point of fact, Connor was thinking the very same thing. He held his new bride's eyes until her grin became as wide as his own.

"Oh, that's brilliant. Every now and then- I mean very rarely- you are absolutely _brilliant_."

With his ears still full of pounding, Connor accepted Abby's power pack and left her one of the work gloves. Then he ran to the power outlet and stripped off its cover. A quick bit of jerry-rigging with the wires, and he jammed the power pack into place with his gloved hand.

For a long second, nothing happened. Connor feared he'd miscalculated, which wouldn't have been unusual. Then the pack began to spark and sizzle with barely-contained energy, as the electricity it wasn't meant to absorb caused it to overload...

When the power pack was crackling madly and clearly unstable, he held it aloft.

"It _is_ a good day, Abby! It's the greatest day there's ever been! There will be fireworks."

Abby laughed; he tossed her the first power pack and went to work on the second. When it was similarly overloaded, he ran to the outer door and Abby ran to the inner one. Then it was just a matter of shifting all the boxes again without letting in the , he looked up.

"Ready?"

"Everyone get back! Get away from the doors!" When they'd followed orders. Abby braced herself at the top of the stairs and nodded to Connor. "Ready!"

He smiled. "I love you, Mrs. Temple!"

"Well, it's better than 'blonde girl'..." Abby shrugged. "Love you, too."

"One. Two." He took a deep breath. "_Three_!"

In unison, they wrenched the doors open and threw out the overloaded power packs. The motion might have distracted the plague victims, as their group mind tried to calculate what this gift could possibly mean. That bought Abby and Connor time to jam the doors and dive for cover. Almost the same moment Abby hit the floor at the base of the stairs, there was a tremendous sound of crackling electricity and the scent of something awful burning...

Connor levered himself to hands and knees and looked around. The pounding had stopped, but did that mean the infected were gone, or merely playing dead?

_One way to find out..._ he thought. With Reverend Paul's rifle covering him, he wrenched open the bulkhead. The plague victims in the graveyard were twitching on the ground, their connection disrupted by a sudden, powerful jolt of electricity...

Connor started waving for the survivors. "Come on, everyone! This way! Quickly!"

While the others were filing out, Abby ran to him and nearly knocked him off his feet, and they had a proper wedded kiss. Not a bad moment at all...

xxxxx

As effective as Connor's speech about the indomitable will to live proved, it should be noted he picked some very bad examples for it. Stephen Hart, hero though he was, actually _had_ died. Danny Quinn was dead to the modern world, at least. The Doctor was fictional, although Connor struggled to believe that. And Becker...

Well, Becker was hanging upside-down from a tree, just centimetres from falling into the grasp of the infected.

He'd managed to recover himself at the last moment before falling, just well enough to loop the shoulder strap of his rifle around an upper branch. But he couldn't snag the branch himself; he swung out into open air, and it was all he could do to wrap his legs around the branch before the strap broke. Unfortunately, the limb he was quite literally out on didn't seem excessively sturdy, either; try as he might, Becker couldn't manage to get his arms around it and right himself. So he hung upside-down, periodically blasting the plague victims with his EMD when they got brave. But soon enough his power pack would run down, or the limb would snap and drop him into the hopping horde of frogs at the base of the tree, and that would be the end of Captain Becker.

_Unless..._

One of the human victims caught his eye. He recognised the man's flannel jacket, and something of his weathered complexion beneath the boils. It was Jim Bailey, Patient Zero himself, leading the charge! And that gave Becker an idea...

"I know you," he said quietly, forcing the words through clenched teeth as he struggled for breath. "You're the fisherman. Connor says this virus is intelligent; I'm betting some part of you can still understand me. Is that right?"

Bailey cocked his head at Becker, a little bit quizzical, but his eyes were empty,the colour of the yellow ooze that accompanied the plague. He barely looked human, but Becker was betting everything that was a mistaken impression...

"I know how it must have been for you," he said. "Tormented for years by the creatures in this lake, no one believing you. Probably not even your friends, your family. I know, mate. The things we see... they'll drive you mad. At least you only became an eccentric fisherman. That's to your credit. I've seen them do far worse to people..."

Bailey took a step forward, but it was difficult to say whether he was responding or simply trying again to capture Becker.

The security captain took the deepest breath he could, and tried again. "I wonder if it's not easier for you, now. Better, maybe. You understand it all; you're part of it. You don't have to wonder any more. I could use a little of that certainty. I was... there was a good friend of mine, and I lost her. I can't help thinking... I could have saved her, I should have. It keeps me up nights, you know? I'll bet you do."

The thing that had once been Jim Bailey definitely came forward; the others even retreated a bit. Perhaps the group intelligence sensed an opening. Becker prepared his final pitch...

"I suppose that's why I've been desperate to save the others. I wish I could let all that go. Lay my burdens down. But I'm a bit of an old soldier, you know? I want to surrender to an opponent I respect, not a bunch of silly frogs. You understand. Fishermen like a good, honest fight." Hoping as hard as he could that he was doing the right thing, Becker stretched out his hand. "I'll surrender to you. Just come a little closer. We'll face these monsters from the lake together. What do you say?"

Slowly, the Bailey-creature extended his hand. The group mind must have thought Becker awfully stupid, but then, the feeling was mutual. If Bailey would just come forward another step...

There! At the last instant before his skin touched Bailey's, Becker withdrew his hand and swung down from the limb, his feet- one boot and one sock- landing on the other man's shoulders. Bailey swayed and nearly fell, but an instant was all Becker needed. He boosted himself back up to the limb and caught it with his hands this time. In moments, he was shimmying up the trunk.

"Call yourself a fisherman!" he shouted to the unfortunate infected. "Don't you recognise a lure when you see one?"

When he was as far up the tree as he could go, well beyond the reach of the plague victims, he heard rotors in the distance. Helicopters! Lester had come through with an evacuation! Grinning, Becker lifted his EMD and fired several shots into the air, the bright electric bolts alerting the pilot to his position. Another minute, and he was climbing a rope and being helped into the chopper.

As soon as he was sure of his footing, he borrowed a conventional pistol from one of the soldiers, sighted carefully, and dropped Jim Bailey with a single, clean shot. He might not have felt all the kinship he professed for the fisherman, but he_ was_ sympathetic, and one look at the other's face told him Connor had been right about something else: Ending his torment was nothing but mercy.

He suspected he'd sleep even worse than usual that night, but that was a burden to which Becker was well accustomed.

xxxxx

At the end of a difficult trek across town, Matt Anderson crouched behind a parked car with Emily, Will Thomas, and the Downings. Before them was an empty lot- on the far side of it, the disguised generator indicated by Mrs. Evans. The trouble was, at least a dozen infected patrolled the ground between them and their goal. The plague victims didn't seem able to get into the storage shed, nor did they possess the fine control to destroy it, but they clearly knew it was important, and they weren't permitting anyone access without a fight.

"How are we going to get through that?" Emily whispered.

Matt shrugged. "We need a diversion."

Robert Downing held up the last remaining explosive pellet left him by this father. "We've still got this. It lacks the range to take them all, though."

"It's a suicide mission," Kate breathed. "I'll do it. I'm military."

"No, love. It's my dad's fault, isn't it? I'll do it."

Before Matt could tell them both to settle down, because no non-combatant was going to undertake a suicide mission on his watch, Will Thomas grabbed the miniature bomb out of Robert's hand.

"Sorry," he said, "but I'm the law in this town."

"No!" Matt snapped, but it was too late. The constable had already broken from cover. The plague victims had seen him.

"Oi, uglies! I think you missed one! Over here!"

The majority of the plague victims followed after Will as he raced across the lot; a couple of others noticed Matt's team, but he and Kate concentrated fire and put them down, at least temporarily. That left the way open, and Matt and Emily ran to the storage shed.

As they approached the door, Matt glimpsed Will from the corner of his eye. The constable stopped, let the infected surround him, and threw the pellet, knocking most of them down. But a few around the edges escaped the blast, and these converged on him-

Matt looked eyes with the constable across the empty lot and nodded. Will smiled- and then screamed. Matt turned his attention to getting the door open. Emily kept looking back, and her fingers tightened on Matt's arm.

Mrs. Evans' code worked on the lock, but the metal door remained jammed. Matt kicked it open and pulled Emily inside. Like the laboratory, the generator was far more impressive and better-maintained on the inside than the outside. An entire bank of switches and machinery confronted Matt, most of which he couldn't begin to fathom. So he simply turned on everything he could find. This included a computer screen in the middle of the console.

"Matt!" Emily called. She was standing at the door, watching the plague victims recover, while Kate Downing picked off as many as she could. "Please tell me you know what you're doing."

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing. Whether it's the_ right_ thing? Haven't a clue."

A user interface popped up demanding a password. Matt carefully entered 1131959 and pounded the 'ENTER' key. This caused a very loud noise and a shuddering sensation from floor to ceiling, so Matt thought it a good idea to take cover. He and Emily ducked behind the console...

The noise became a squeal, then a siren. A pulse emanated from the console- from beneath it- from _somewhere_, it was difficult to be sure- and blasted out in all directions. If the mini-bomb felt like a stiff breeze, this felt like a hurricane. Matt and Emily hung onto each other for dear life.

_I hope that wasn't radioactive_, Matt thought; he supposed even if it was, it was better than dying of the future plague. Strangely, that didn't improve his mood.

The wave passed. After a moment, the generator room settled down, although a deep thrumming beneath Matt's feet suggested the power source remained in operation. Hopefully that meant Mrs. Evans was right, and everything in town was stunned. He hugged Emily for an extra second, then ran to the door to check.

Outside, only the Downings remained on their feet, and they were holding each other the way Matt and Emily had done. All the plague victims, everything else that should have been moving as far as Matt could see, lay on the ground, dazed or dormant.

Matt exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Emily turned up beside him and squeezed his arm.

They crossed the lot to where Will Thomas had fallen; he was unconscious, too, his boyish face already half-concealed by oozing red welts. Matt shook his head.

"This will be worth it," he murmured. "Whatever was being done here, by whomever, we'll stop them. I promise."

"Are you talking to me or to him?" Emily asked.

"I'm talking to me," Matt said, and that's when he heard the whir of helicopter rotors approaching the too-silent town.

xxxxx

A pair of choppers hovered in a clearing just outside of Southfield, not far from where the ARC team had parked their truck. Connor Temple thought it a shame they couldn't just drive home, but Matt pointed out the problem he already knew: Suppose a frog or a mouse got into the truck, recovered once outside the town limits, and spread the plague to all of England? Everything in town, big and small, would have to be thoroughly sterilized before it could be released from government custody.

The people would be graciously permitted to leave, though not without scars. They staggered toward the helicopters in groups of two and three, heads down, barely able to believe all they'd survived.

First came Emily Merchant and Captain Becker, the latter telling the former all about his daring escape.

"They actually grabbed your boot?" Emily wondered. "How did you get out of that?"

"Good, thick pair of socks. Soldier's best friend."

"Bravo!" Emily said, with added applause. "An escape worthy of the _Millennium Falcon_!"

"Lovely," Becker groaned. "There's two of you. Worse than the zombies..."

Something about their words seemed to remind Connor of something he'd been thinking about a long time ago, something that didn't quite matter just now. He was too tired to think about it, and soon enough they were in the first helicopter, and Matt was left in the lead, along with the young family he'd introduced as the Downings.

"What will happen to us now?" Robert asked.

"You'll be taken back to the ARC and debriefed. Our people will close down this town and burn what can't be decontaminated."

"What about the infected people?" asked Kate.

"They'll be taken into custody for now," Matt said. "If there's a cure, we'll find it."

"I want you to know I'm sorry for this," Robert said. "What they were doing here... my dad couldn't have known everything. He wouldn't have stood for it. I'm sure of that."

Matt shook his head. "I don't know what I'm sure of any more..."

But he nodded to the Downings politely enough, and they too proceeded toward the first helicopter. That left Connor, Abby, and some of their survivors for the second chopper.

Abby was walking a little distance behind Connor, with Reverend Paul and Mrs. Ridley. Connor slowed up to join them; it seemed the new bride was trying to return the ring.

"It's yours," Abby insisted. "You should have it back."

"Keep it, child," Mrs. Ridley said, folding the ring in the younger woman's palm. "Perhaps it'll bring you luck."

"Sorry," Connor said, "this is the same ring you were wearing when the zombies invaded, yeah?"

"Connor, be nice!" Abby said. She smiled at Mrs. Ridley. "It's so lovely. Thank you."

Connor offered his hand to Reverend Paul, who shook it only grudgingly. "Reverend, thanks. Couldn't have done it without you."

"Think nothing of it," the old minister growled. "And should the pair of you need someone to officiate at the larger ceremony, please do call... someone else."

With that, the holy man departed, guiding Mrs. Ridley toward the helicopters with an arm around her shoulders. Connor sidled up next to... his wife, apparently.

"Wow," he said. "We're married."

"Yeah," said Abby. "Probably shouldn't mention it to the others yet. Wouldn't want to ruin the wedding plans; Jess would pout for ages!"

"Yeah, 'course," Connor said. "In fact, I should go on that stag weekend with Becker. You know, to throw off suspicion. I hear these military guys_ really_ know how to throw a..."

He trailed off. Abby was staring at him; earlier, he'd thought her smile the most beautiful thing in the world. He should have known the flip side of that would be a problem. Connor had met a good many velociraptors who appeared less fearsome.

"Eh... missed my window, did I?"

"Yeah."

"Taking her life in her hands?"

Abby patted Connor's arm. "Not just her life."

"Right... so... we'll just watch _Battlestar Galactica_. That's all I wanted."

"Good man," Abby said.

She hugged Connor's arm and kissed his cheek, then ran for the second helicopter. Connor waited until she'd boarded and he was reasonably certain she wouldn't be able to tease him later. Then he pumped his fist and jumped up and down a few times before hurrying to join the evacuation.

Against all odds, it had been a really good day.

**THE END**

_...of this story. The sixth series will continue. The first use of Connor's time-travel device strands Abby and Emily in the Pleistocene, while Matt deals with a mysterious new teammate, in..._

**Primeval 6.3: Time After Time**

_Coming Soon!_


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